IIIIIIIIIIIIIIIIII 


^^^^^■^^^^^^^^    i^^^^^^^^^ 


RUJT 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 

OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 

GIFT 


From  the  Library  of 

Henry  Goldman,  Ph.D. 

1886-1972 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 


■  ■■^^'Sri 


"Thk  Eternal  City" 

(From  tht  Painting  by  Jules  Gulrin) 


THE 

FRUITFUL  VINE 


BY 

ROBERT  HICHENS 

AUTHOR    OF    "the    GARDEN    OF    ALLAH,"      "  FELIX, " 
THE  WOMAN  WITH  THE  FAN,"   "TONGUES  OF  CONSCIENCE,' 

ETC. 


With  a  Frontispiece  in  Color  by 
JULES  GUERIN 


NEW  YORK 

FREDERICK  A.   STOKES  COMPANY 

PUBLISHERS 


Copy  right  y  IQII,  by 
Robert  Hichens 


All  rights  reser'ved,  including  that  of  translation  into  foreign 
languages,  including  the  Scandinanjian 


September,  igii 


n 


CHAPTER   I 

OME  lay  in  the  embrace  of  a  golden  afternoon,  one  of 
those  clear  afternoons  of  autumn  which  hold  no  foretaste 
of  winter  sadness,  but  which  are  mellow  and  soft,  which 
suggest  to  the  mind  the  glory  of  harvest,  the  merriment  and 
opulence  of  the  vintage,  when  the  sons  of  men  take  from  the 
earth  her  good  gifts  with  joy  and  a  careless  thankfulness.  The 
close  rows  of  the  ilexes  in  the  Borghese  Gardens  threw  their  twi- 
light upon  the  paths  about  the  Piazza  di  Siena.  The  tall  pine 
trees  showed  their  round  dark  heads  on  the  crest  of  the  hill  by  the 
Porta  Pinciana.  But  in  the  Giardino  del  Lago,  near  the  temple 
of  iEsculapius,  the  red  and  golden  leaves  were  falling  along  the 
edge  of  the  opaque  water,  and  the  black  figures  of  the  students 
from  the  theological  colleges,  who  haunt  this  quiet  enclosure, 
coming  and  going  among  the  trees,  or  bending  motionless  over 
tlieir  books  of  devotion  in  sheltered  places,  were  relieved  against 
a  delicate  wonder  of  color  that  touched  them  with  romance. 
Upon  the  circular  riding  track  that  girdles  the  grassy  open 
space  where  games  are  plaj-ed  by  the  students  and  youths  of 
Rome,  ofHcers  in  uniform  cantered  by,  sitting  squarely  on  their 
horses.  Workmen  in  soft  hats,  their  jackets  loosely  tied  by  the 
sleeves  round  their  brawny  necks,  went  past  smoking  Toscanas, 
and  talking  loudly.  Strangers,  seeking  the  intimate  spell  of 
the  Gracious  City,  dreamed  on  seats-beneath  the  pines  near  the 
Vaccheria.  Here  and  there  a  painter  was  reverently  at  work, 
helped  perhaps  by  the  murmur  of  water  falling  into  the  mossy 
basin  of  an  antique  fountain.  Here  and  there  a  gay  bicyclist 
spun  by,  and  the  purr  of  a  motor  car,  breasting  the  hill  from 
the  Piazza  del  Popolo,  struck  a  modern  note  in  these  Pagan 
gardens.  And  the  light  voices  of  children  thrilled  through  the 
languorous  air  and  rang  out  in  the  sunshine. 

For  it  was  the  children's  hour  in  the  Villa  Borghese. 

The  stalwart  nurses  in  their  flowing  ribbons,  with  immense 
gleaming  pins,  almost  like  daggers,  stuck  through  their  head- 
dresses, walked  proudly,  carrying,  or  wheeling,  their  charges, 
the  dark-eyed  h'lmbi  of  Rome,  Older  children,  clasping  dolls, 
or  carelessly  cherishing  as  accustomed  possessions,  beloved  but 
thoroughly  known,  large  Teddy  bears,  walked  or  skipped  blithely 


2  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

along  the  paths,  crying  out  like  birds  to  each  other,  darting  to 
and  fro  as  if  full  of  mysterious  purpose  not  to  be  divined  by 
their  elders,  or  gazing  at  the  horsemen  and  motors  with  a  con- 
centration behind  which  lay  virginal  tracts  of  desire,  of  dewy 
hopes,  of  bright,  springing  imaginations.  Some  boys  were  play- 
ing football,  not  cleverly,  but  lustily,  exercising  their  limbs 
with  a  riotous  joy,  and  filling  the  air  with  their  shouts.  Many 
young  girls,  with  bright,  watchful  eyes  and  demure  lips,  moved 
slowly  with  their  English  or  German  governesses  towards  the 
Pincio. 

It  was  a  Saturday,  and  at  three  o'clock  there  would  be  music 
in  the  kiosk  from  the  band  of  the  Carabinieri. 

So  fine  was  the  afternoon  that  a  crowd  of  people  would 
probably  be  there.  It  was  early  in  November,  and  though  the 
gay  season  of  Rome  had  not  begun,  would  not  begin  till  after 
Christmas,  though  the  Costanzi  had  not  yet  opened  its  doors 
to  opera-goers,  and  though  many  of  the  Roman  aristocracy 
still  lingered  in  their  country  places,  yet  numerous  palaces  and 
apartments  were  already  occupied,  most  of  the  diplomats  ac- 
credited to  the  Quirinal  and  the  Vatican  had  returned  to  their 
duties,  and  in  the  hotels  and  the  innumerable  pensions  there 
was  a  goodly  number  of  guests.  So  the  young  girls  and  their 
governesses  walked  towards  the  Pincio,  intent  on  hearing  the 
music,  but  still  more  intent  on  having  a  peep  at  the  world. 

As  the  hour  struck,  the  conductor  took  his  stand  in  the  pil- 
lared kiosk,  settled  his  peaked  cap  firmly  on  his  head  with  an  air 
of  martial  resolution,  threw  back  his  long  cloak,  lifted  his  arm, 
and  the  first  notes  of  a  potpourri  of  airs  from  A'ida  rang  out  to 
the  waiting  crowd. 

It  was  not  a  very  large  crowd  as  yet,  and  it  v.-as  not  at  all 
fashionable.  The  children  were  there,  the  young  girls  with 
their  chaperons,  tourists,  students,  casual  old  gentlemen  with 
newspapers,  odd  Russians  and  Germans,  little  French  painters 
in  soft  hats,  flowing  ties,  and  corduroy  trousers  that  looked 
like  divided  skirts,  independent  English  and  American  women 
with  opera  glasses  over  their  shoulders  and  guide-books  in  their 
hands.  But  there  were  few  gay  and  pretty  women,  few 
smart  Italian  men,  and  not  many  of  the  idle  cosmopolitans 
who  year  by  year  come  to  winter  in  Rome.  The  crowd  on  the 
Pincio  is  not  what  it  used  to  be.  And  as  yet  it  was  too  early. 
When  the  true  lovers  of  the  Pincio  and  the  passeggiaia*  did 

*  For   translations   of    foreign    words    and    phrases   see    page    522. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  3 

come,  they  would  stay,  many  of  them,  till  the  sun  set,  till  the 
straight  fringe  of  pine-trees  that  crowns  the  hilltop  between 
St.  Peter's  and  Monte  Mario  was  black  against  the  rose  or 
the  amber  of  the  sky,  till  under  the  ilex  trees  of  the  Villa 
Borghese  the  shadows  were  deep  and  somber,  and  the  murmur 
of  the  fountains  was  like  the  whisper  of  the  night  stealing  to 
take  possession  of  her  Pagan  territory. 

Little  iron  chairs  were  dotted  about  in  the  neighborhood  of 
the  kiosk,  and  presently  a  couple  of  young  Englishwomen 
walked  briskly  up  and  took  possession  of  two  of  them.  They 
were  plainly  dressed  in  dark  skirts  and  blouses,  with  belts 
round  their  trim  waists,  and  flowered  hats  on  their  fluffy  hair. 
Their  faces  were  full  of  excitement,  and  they  sat  down  in  a 
place  that  commanded  a  good  view  of  the  road  with  an  air  al- 
most of  triumph. 

"  We  shall  see  splendidly  here,  Jenny,"  said  one.  "  Shan't 
we?  I  wonder  if  there'll  be  any  princesses!  They  say  Rome's 
fairly  full  of  them.  I  do  wish  we  had  someone  with  us  that 
could  tell  us  who  they  all.  are.  And  we'll,  go  down  the  steps 
when  it's  over  and  get  a  cup  of  tea  in  the  Piazzer,  shall  we? 
You  know!  At  that  place  where  we  went  Thursday  after  St. 
Peter's." 

They  settled  themselves  to  stare.  They  belonged  to  a  party 
of  English  school-teachers  who,  having  all  contributed  to  a 
common  fund,  were  now,  under  the  auspices  of  one  of  those 
agencies  which  run  cheap  trips  on  the  Continent,  passing  a 
week  in  Rome. 

The  crowd  gradually  thickened  as  the  time  drew  on  towards 
four,  and  the  two  young  women  found  many  things  to  attract 
their  attention  and  to  stir  them  to  comment.  They  wondered 
at  the  sight  of  men  enclosed  in  broughams,  often  with  the 
windows  up,  revolving  slowly  round  and  round.  They  mar- 
velled at  the  odd  shapes  of  some  of  the  motor  cars  of  foreign 
makes  that  drew  up  on  the  other  side  of  the  road.  The  hats 
of  certain  canzonettiste  from  the  Teatro  Olympia  roused  them 
to  excited  discussion.  And  they  gained  great  pleasure  —  tinged, 
they  thought,  with  a  certain  high  intellectuality  —  in  trying  to 
pick  out  from  the  cosmopolitan  throng  the  various  nationalities 
represented  in  it. 

Presently  their  happily  agile  curiosity  was  caught  and  fixed 
by  the  two  occupants  of  a  soberly  colored,  but  perfectly  built, 
victoria,  which  went  slowly  by,  vanished  and  reappeared,  hav- 
ing circled  among  the  ilexes. 


4  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"Look,  Jenny!  What  a  little  duck  of  a  dog!  What  kind 
•Is  it?" 

"It  isn't  a  Pom!" 

"  No.     Is  it  a  King  Charles?  " 

"  Not  it!  I  believe  it's  one  of  the  rare  dogs  that  come  from 
China,  and  that  cost  a  mint  of  money.  Dear!  I  do  wish  I 
was  rich.  I  should  like  to  sit  there  like  she  does  with  that 
dog  in  my  lap.     She  must  be  happy." 

"  She "  was  the  other  occupant  of  the  victoria,  which  at 
this  moment  passed  out  of  sight. 

"  Somehow  I  don't  think  she  looked  happy,"  said  the  other 
school-teacher,  pulling  down  her  belt  —  a  young  Italian  had 
just  sent  her  an  expressive  glance  from  his  velvety  eyes.  "  She 
seemed  very  fond  of  the  dog,  if  you  like.  Who  wouldn't  be? 
I'm  sure  she  just  dotes  on  it.  But  I  shouldn't  call  it  a  happy 
face.  There's  a  lot  of  these  ladies  in  carriages  with  dogs  and 
what  not,  who  don't  look  half  as  lively  as  you." 

"  Oh,  me!  Well,  when  should  I  look  lively  if  not  on  a  trip 
like  this?  I've  been  thinking  about  it  for  years.  There  she 
comes  again!  " 

This  time  the  carriage  drew  up  not  far  from  the  two  girls, 
and  the  footman  got  down  from  the  box  and  stood  near  It  like 
a  sentinel,  while  his  mistress  enjoyed  the  sun  and  the  air,  and 
listened  to  the  music.  The  dog  from  China,  seated  upon  her 
knee  in  a  prominent  manner,  sniffed  perpetually  with  his  blunt 
nose,  and  stared  about  him  with  heavy,  convex  eyes,  Vi^hich 
seemed  to  be  swimming  in  a  bluish  fluid. 

"  D'j'ou  think  she's  foreign?  " 

"  She's  dark.     Perhaps  she's  an  Italian." 

"  I  don't  believe  it.     Somehow  I  believe  she's  English." 

"  Oh,  no!     Never!     What  makes  you  think  so?  " 

"  Something  —  the  way  she  sits." 

"  Sits !  How  could  any  one  sit  any  different  from  the  w^ay 
she  does  ? " 

"  How  you  do  catch  one  up,  Jenny!  The  way  she  is  then! 
Say  what  you  will,  there  Is  an  English  way  and  a  foreign  way. 
I  do  like  her  things.  Look!  She's  stroking  the  dog's  head. 
Would  you  call  her  pretty  ?  " 

"  Yes,  very." 

"  Well,  I  think  it's  more  mysterious  than  pretty  —  her  whole 
look,  I  mean.     Now  she's  going  on  again." 

The  footman  was  up  on  his  box  once  more.  The  coachman 
touched   the  horses  with   his  whip,   and   the   carriage  moved. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  5 

Just  at  this  moment  two  children  with  their  attendant  came 
between  the  school-teachers  and  the  carriage,  a  girl  of  about 
four  years  old  and  a  much  smaller  boy,  who  struggled  forward 
with  a  sort  of  haphazard  precaution,  laughing,  as  if  almost 
intoxicated  with  triumph  at  his  own  powers  in  being  able  to 
walk  at  all.  Both  children  were  clad  in  white  plush  coats 
and  white  hats,  and  the  girl,  going  backwards  before  the  boy, 
and  holding  out  her  arms  towards  him,  kept  crying  out:  "Ad- 
dioj  Peppino!  Addio,  Peppino!"  as  she  receded,  taking  a 
charming  care  to  keep  always  very  near  to  her  brother. 

Peppino  grew  red  with  determination  not  to  be  escaped 
from.  With  the  doughty,  and  almost  ruthless  air  of  a  young 
warrior,  no  longer  laughing,  but  now  frowning  with  concen- 
tration, he  measured  the  might  of  his  short  legs,  encased  in 
white  woollen  gaiters,  against  the  might  of  the  impeding  at- 
mosphere. And  still  the  girl  roguishly  cried  out:  "Addio, 
Peppino!  "  as  she  tempted  him  prettily  onwards. 

The  woman  in  the  carriage  looked  at  the  babies  —  they 
were  little  more  —  in  their  white  coats,  taking  their  first  steps 
into  life;  at  the  girl  child  leading  the  boy  child  onward  with 
her  voice  and  her  outstretched  arms. 

"Addio,  Peppino!     Addio,  Peppino!" 

Always  the  little  girl  walked  backwards  keeping  her  eyes 
on  the  boy,  and  smiling,  with  her  head  a  little  on  one  side. 
The  woman  put  out  one  hand  as  if  to  fend  the  children  oH. 
Perhaps  she  feared  they  might  come  too  near  to  the  carriage 
wheels.  Her  gesture  was  repellant.  The  nurse  called  out. 
The  little  girl  turned  and  stood  still,  staring  at  the  dog  as 
if  completely  fascinated. 

The  woman  gazed  at  her  and  at  her  small  brother,  and  the 
dog  seemed  to  gaze  at  them  too,  with  his  heavy  eyes  which 
bulged  beneath  his  domed  forehead.  Then  the  horses  trotted, 
and  the  woman  was  carried  away  into  the  midst  of  the  thicken- 
ing crowd. 

As  if  moved  by  a  mutual  Impulse  the  two  school-teachers 
turned  and  stared  at  each  other.  The  light,  the  excitement, 
had  died  away  from  their  faces. 

"Well!"  said  she  who  was  called  Jenny  at  length,  with 
a  deep  breath;  "  Well,  I  never!     Did  you  see  that?  " 

"  Yes.  She  did  look  "  —  the  girl  paused,  as  if  seeking  a 
suitable  word  —  "she  did  look  awful!"  she  concluded  lamely. 

"  Perhaps  she  hates  children." 

"  Oh,  no!     It  wasn't  that!     Besides  who  hates  children?  " 


6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  You  never  know." 

"  No,  Jenny,  it  wasn't  that." 

The  music  stopped. 

"  I  vote  we  go,"  said  Jennj'.     "  I  feel  I  want  a  cup  of  tea." 

She  got  up. 

"  It  gets  a  bit  cold  towards  sunset,"  she  added. 

"  Yes,  so  it  does.     I  should  like  something  to  warm  me  up." 

The  two  girls  went  off  slowly  together. 

Meanwhile  the  woman  with  the  dog,  who  had  not  seen  the 
two  girls,  and  who  was  never  to  know  of  their  existence,  made 
the  round  of  the  Villa  Borghese  and  presently  returned  to  the 
Pincio. 

"  Please  draw  up  on  the  terrace  facing  the  music,"  she  said 
in  Italian  to  the  footman. 

He  spoke  to  the  coachman,  and  the  victoria  joined  a  line 
■of  carriages  and  motors  on  the  terrace  from  which  may  be  seen 
a  wide  view  over  the  cupolas  and  towers  of  Rome. 

The  sun  was  still  shining  with  a  temperate  brightness,  and, 
despite  the  comment  of  the  school-teacher,  the  air  had  not  lost 
its  warmth.  Once  more  the  band  was  playing  a  lively  air. 
The  crowd  had  increased.  The  space  in  front  of  the  kiosk 
was  thronged  with  people.  The  footman  again  got  down  from 
the  box  of  the  victoria  and  stood  beside  it,  so  that  the  view  of 
his  mistress  was  not  impeded.  Leaning  back  with  the  dog  still 
held  on  her  knee,  she  looked  across  the  roadway. 

Exactly  in  front  of  her,  sideways  to  her  carriage,  a  big  red 
motor  car  was  drawn  up.  It  contained  a  tribe  of  very  fair 
youngsters  in  jerseys  and  red  caps.  They  were  Russians,  bloom- 
ing with  health,  with  sturdy  limbs,  frank  blue  eyes  and  prim- 
rose colored  hair.  Among  them,  almost  immersed  in  them, 
was  a  patriarch.  His  yellow,  serene  face,  with  prominent 
cheek-bones,  his  thick,  snow-white  hair,  showed  as  it  were 
through  a  moving  veil  of  children,  which  almost  hid  him  from 
sight.  Besides  the  chauffeur,  who  wore  a  long  fan-shaped 
black  beard,  sat  a  small  woman  of  about  forty,  who  looked  like 
a  governess. 

The  children,  of  whom  there  were  probably  five  or  six,  but 
who  moved  about  with  such  rapidity  —  climbing  on  the  seats, 
disappearing  unexpectedly  into  the  depths  of  the  motor,  and 
with  equal  unexpectedness  popping  up  again  —  that  it  was  not 
easy  to  number  them,  talked  perpetually  in  French,  now  among 
themselves,  now  to  the  governess  or  to  the  old  gentleman  sunk 
down  in  the  seat  of  honor.    They  pointed  at  everything  which 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  7 

interested  them,  beat  time  to  the  music  with  their  little  soft 
hands — hands  which  looked  strangely  innocent  —  uttered  shrill 
cries,  and  occasionally  clambering  up  to  some  point  of  vantage, 
tumbled  from  it,  drawing  shrieks  of  laughter  from  safely- 
planted  brothers  and  sisters.  The  governess,  turning,  some- 
times held  up  a  warning  finger,  which  was  joyously  disregarded 
by  all.  As  to  the  old  grandpapa,  he  remained  calm  as  some 
contented  old  tree  about  which  young  tendrils  were  twining, 
throwing  their  tender  green  arms  about  his  gnarled  and  weather- 
beaten  trunk,  striving  to  conceal  the  ravages  of  time  with  their 
fresh  beauty,  and  clinging  to  his  well-tried  strength. 

The  woman  in  the  victoria  watched  this  joyous  party. 

She  was  just  twenty-nine,  but  looked  scarcely  more  than 
twenty-six,  despite  her  pale  complexion,  and  the  pathetic  ex- 
pression in  her  large,  deep  brown  eyes,  which  had  heavy  lids, 
very  long  upper  and  under  lashes,  and  faint  shadows,  almost 
like  delicate  stains  beneath  them.  They  were  not  set  straight 
in  her  head,  but  slanted  downwards  towards  her  temples.  Her 
eyebrows,  which  were  very  long  and  jet  black,  also  slanted 
markedly  downwards.  Her  white  face  was  oval  and  small, 
with  a  low  forehead  framed  in  thick,  wavy  black  hair,  a  straight, 
small  nose,  with  nostrils  v^'hich  often  looked  slightly  distended, 
and  a  beautiful  mouth,  tending  downwards,  like  eyelids  and 
eyebrows,  but  only  enough  to  be  wistful  in  expression.  The 
red  lips  were  pressed  together,  almost  as  if  to  retain  some 
secret,  above  a  delicately  firm  chin.  The  ears  were  tiny.  Her 
small  head,  her  great  eyes,  her  nostrils,  and  her  charmingly 
graceful  neck,  which  was  long  and  looked  frail,  had  led  the 
friends  of  Dolores  Cannynge  to  christen  her  Gazelle.  Many 
people  habitually  spoke  of  her  as  Gazelle  Cannynge,  and  there 
was  reason  for  the  nickname.  She  was  tall  and  very  slim,  with 
little  ankles  and  wrists,  small,  delicate  feet  and  hands.  And 
in  her  movements  and  all  her  ways  there  was  something  per- 
vasively feminine  and  fastidious  that  was  absolutely  natural,  and 
that  she  was  wholly  unaware  of. 

A  shriek  of  laughter  came  from  the  red  motor  car.  One  of 
the  children  had  essayed  to  jump  from  beside  the  chauffeur 
to  the  seat  next  Grandpapa,  and  had  accomplished  an  un-v 
usually  successful  fall.  Even  old  Grandpapa  was  shaking 
slowly  with  mirth.  And  the  governess  was  making  grotesque 
faces  in  the  endeavor  to  look  stern  above  a  mouth  that  was  bent 
on  smiling. 

The  dog  from  China  uttered  a  muffled  bark.     His  mistress 


8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

tapped  his  head  to  quiet  him,  and  looked  awaj^  from  the  radiant 
children  to  the  left.  There,  on  a  bench  beneath  the  ilex  trees, 
sat  a  nurse  in  a  white  cap  and  apron,  holding  against  her  a 
profoundly  sleeping  child,  whose  face  was  covered  with  a  white 
veil,  and  whose  short  legs,  in  close  woolen  gaiters,  stuck  out 
in  space  with  an  artless  disregard  of  appearances  which  was 
comic,  3'et  also  pathetic. 

For  a  long  time  Dolores  gazed  at  these  little  legs.  She  no 
longer  heard  the  gay  noise  of  the  music.  She  was  no  longer 
conscious  of  the  crowd.  She  was  away  in  a  world  of  clinging 
helplessness,  in  a  world  of  instinctive  trust. 

A  voice  at  her  side  startled  her.     It  said: 

"  Then  you  have  bought  the  wonderful  doggie!  " 

A  middle-aged  and  rather  carelessly-dressed  woman,  in  a 
black  toque  which  had  got  tilted  to  one  side  when  it  ought  to 
have  been  straight,  was  standing  close  to  the  carriage,  looking  at 
Dolores  w^'th  kind  gray  ej'es,  and  holding  out  a  large,  generous 
hand.  About  her  neck  she  had  a  long  streamer  of  purple  gauze, 
and  round  her  toque  was  a  big  gauze  veil  which  had  gone 
hopelessly  wrong.  She  clasped  the  hand  of  Dolores,  and  con^ 
tinued: 

"  Is  he  satisfactory?  Has  he  brought  you  the  joy  you  an- 
ticipated? " 

"  But  I  didn't  anticipate  anything  so  evasive.  Won't  you 
get  into  the  carriage?     I'm  all  alone,  as  you  see." 

"  Or  will  you  get  out  and  take  a  little  walk  with  me?  " 

"  If  you  like." 

The  dog  began  to  scramble  and  stretch. 

"  He  wants  a  walk.     What  do  you  call  him?  " 

"  Nero." 

They  began  to  stroll  down  the  ilex  avenue,  passing  the  nurse 
with  the  sleeping  child,  from  whom  Dolores  looked  away.  The 
dog  accompanied  them,  stepping  daintily,  and  stopping  now  and 
then  to  smell  the  earth  round  the  trunks  of  the  trees. 

"  Why  do  you  call  the  little  wretch  that?  " 

"  My  husband  baptized  him,  and  doesn't  love  him  at  all. 
He  says  poor  Nero  has  the  dull  eye  of  an  egotist  and  a  tyrant. 
And  he  thinks  the  breed  unnatural  looking." 

"  To  speak  quite  frankly,  so  do  I,"  said  Lady  Sarah  Ides.' 
'*  The  head  is  bulbous,  but  signifies  nothing.  The  eyes  are 
large  but  dull.  And  the  expression  seems  to  me  fretful,  like 
that  of  a  naturally  disagreeable  person  suffering  from  an  attack 
of  influenza.     Why  didn't  }'0u  get  a  terrier?" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  9 

"  Everybody  has  a  terrier.  And  terriers  are  so  frightfully 
active." 

"  Like  children.  .What  dozens  of  children  there  are  out 
to-day." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dolores.  "  Shall  we  turn  and  go  to  the  terrace 
for  a  minute?  There's  the  Boccara!  I  didn't  know  she  was 
back  yet." 

She  nodded  to  a  birdlike  and  very  pretty  woman,  with 
Venetian  red  hair  and  upturned  eyebrows,  who  at  that  moment 
passed  them  in  a  landaulette.  The  pretty  woman  smiled  bril- 
liantly, pulled  a  string,  and  the  motor  stopped. 

"  How  nice  to  see  you  again!  I've  just  arrived  from  Paris. 
Motored  all  the  way.  Nino's  been  in  Monte  Carlo.  Don't 
ask  me  whj^,  or  with  whom.  But  I  shall  tell  you  almost  di- 
rectly. I  feel  I'm  going  to.  Come  to  tea  at  the  Excelsior  to- 
day.    Can  you  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  said  Dolores.  "  I'm  not  obliged  to  go  anywhere  else 
this  afternoon." 

"I'll  tell  you  then  perhaps  —  probably.  Directly  the 
sun  sets!  I'll  be  in  the  hall.  What  a  delicious  dog!  So 
odd  and  expensive  looking.  Bring  him.  I  love  dogs.  So 
much  nicer  than  babies!  And  then  they  don't  spoil  one's 
figure!" 

She  drove  away. 

"  D'you  know  Madeleine  Boccara?"  said  Dolores  to  Lady 
Sarah,  as  they  went  towards  the  terrace. 

"  No.  She  doesn't  come  into  my  ambiente.  Rome,  small  as 
It  is  in  comparison  with  London  and  Paris,  is  full  of  sets  which 
seldom  mingle.  And  I'm  an  old  thing,  and  haunt  churches 
and  galleries,  and  walk  in  the  byways,  while  the  little  Boccara 
goes  to  the  Excelsior  and  the  Grand  Hotel.  IVe  seen  her 
often  though,  and  of  course  she's  famous." 

"  For  her  beauty  you  mean?  " 

"  No.  She's  the  woman  who  has  never  seen  the  Colosseum 
or  the  Vatican,  and  who  doesn't  know  where  they  are,  or  says 
she  doesn't." 

"  Little  poseuse!  " 

"  We  mustn't  forget  she's  only  been  in  Rome  for  seven  or 
eight  years." 

"  I  know.  She's  from  Lyons,  but  says  she's  a  Parisian.  I'm 
rather  fond  of  her,  but  Theo  isn't.  He  thinks  she  leads  all  the 
frivolity  of  Rome." 

"But  is  Sir  Theodore  such  an  enemy  of  harmless  frivolity? 


10  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  must  have  seen  a  great  deal  of  it  when  he  was  in  diplomacy, 
and  I  never  heard  that  he  was  a  Puritan." 

"  He  isn't.     But  since  he  retired "  she  stopped.     Then 

she  said,  with  a  changed  voice:  "Oh!  if  only  he  hadn't  re- 
tired! If  only  he  were  still  in  the  service!  It's  such  a  mis- 
take for  a  man  no  older  than  Theo,  with  Theo's  nature,  to 
retire  so  early.     Such  a  mistake!  " 

There  was  in  her  voice  an  emotion  that  seemed  excessive, 
and  her  small  face,  always  very  expressive,  had  become  almost 
mysteriously  intense. 

"Why  did  he  retire?" 

"Well,  you  know,  Theo  often  acts  suddenly.  He  was  very 
disappointed  at  losing  Vienna.  He  quite  thought  he  was  going 
to  have  it,  and  that  he  would  do  wonders  there.  And  he  sim- 
ply hated  the  idea  of  being  Minister  at  Stockholm.  Stagnation 
varied  by  tobogganning,  he  called  it.  And  just  at  the  moment 
when  he  was  in  this  mood,  all  the  Templeton  money  came  to 
him  and  made  him  independent.  He  gave  in  his  resignation 
without  saying  a  word  to  me." 

"And  if  he  had  consulted  you?" 

"  I  should  never  have  let  him  retire,  never." 

She  spoke  with  a  sudden  force  and  determination  that  were 
almost  startling. 

"  I  would  have  gone  to  Stockholm,  Pekin,  Patagonia,  any- 
where with  him  rather  than  that  he  should  retire." 

Lady  Sarah  put  up  her  hand  to  her  head,  and  gave  her  toque 
a  push,  which  sent  it  not  into  its  proper  place,  but  beyond. 

"  D'you  think  it  so  very  bad  for  him  to  be  without  regular 
occupation?  "  she  asked,  after  a  moment,  with  a  rather  anxious 
glance  towards  her  companion. 

"  Yes,  I  do.     I  know  it  is." 

They  had  com^e  to  the  terrace,  and  now  stood  still  looking 
down  over  Rome. 

Some  bells  were  ringing  beneath  them.  The  golden  air  was 
full  of  voices,  the  sky  full  of  the  touching  light  of  late  after- 
noon, which  seems  to  tremble  with  wonder  at  its  own  magic 
like  a  soul  finding  v/ithin  itself  a  virtue  that  comes  from  afar. 
Several  people  were  standing  by  the  balustrade  and  looking 
down.  Among  them  was  a  priest,  evidently  English,  broad 
built,  with  blue  eyes,  and  a  strong,  but  tender  face.  He  glanced 
at  Dolores,  then  turned  his  eyes  towards  St.  Peter's.  His  lips 
moved.  Perhaps  he  was  murmuring  a  prayer.  A  nun,  dressed 
in  violet  and  black,  came  up  at  the  head  of  a  little  band  of 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  ir 

children,  who  followed  her  as  lambs  follow  a  shepherd  of  the 
Campagna.  She,  too,  looked  towards  St.  Peter's  with  her  quiet 
eyes,  which  resembled  the  eyes  of  a  child.  For  a  moment  she 
stopped,  and  all  the  children  at  once  gathered  eagerly  round 
her,  lifting  their  innocent  faces  to  hers,  which  was  equally  in- 
nocent. She  spoke  to  them  in  Italian,  saying  something  about 
"  //  Papa"  and  pointing  with  one  thin,  kind-looking  hand 
towards  the  great  dome  which  dominated  the  city.  Then  she 
walked  on  with  her  flock  behind  her,  confidingly  treading  in  her 
footsteps,  and  looking  very  happy  and  very  safe. 

"  Dear,  dear  little  things!  "  said  Lady  Sarah,  following  them 
with  her  eyes,  which  had  filled  with  tears.  "  Dear  little  puri- 
fiers of  the  world'  Ah,  I  often  wish  now  that  I  were  a  nun 
teaching  at  the  Sacre  Coeur!  Last  Sunday  I  was  there  at  Bene- 
diction. And  how  I  wished  it  when  I  saw  the  little  innocent 
creatures  in  their  veils  filing  in  behind  the  grille." 

*'  I  cannot  imagine  you  a  nun." 

"No,  my  dear!  And  you  are  quite  right,  I'm  a  dusty  old 
worldling  and  quite  unfit  for  the  regions  of  dew." 

She  put  up  a  handkerchief  and  wiped  her  eyes  openly,  then 
pulled  her  veil  more  awry. 

"  And  you  could  never  shut  out  your  beloved  Rome,"  said 
Dolores,  "  your  beloved  Pagan  Rome.  Come  and  sit  in  the  car- 
riage for  ten  minutes.     If  we  stay  here,  Nero " 

At  this  moment  Nero  uttered  a  piercing  cry.  A  child  had 
inadvertently  trodden  on  one  of  his  delicate  paws.  Dolores  bent 
down  quickly  and  picked  him  up.  But  she  did  not  pet  him. 
And  when  they  were  in  the  victoria  she  put  him  down  on  the 
floor,  and  told  him  he  was  to  sit  quiet. 

"  You  are  not  like  Madeleine  Boccara,"  continued  Dolores:; 
"  you  love  Rome." 

"And  not  only  Pagan  Rome.     But  don't  you?" 

"  I  didn't  want  at  all  to  come  back  this  year.  I  wanted  to 
go  to  Cannes,  or  Mentone,  or  Egypt.  But  Theo  would  come. 
Of  course  I  didn't  tell  him  I  was  tired  of  Rome." 

She  added  the  last  words  rather  hastily,  and  they  did  not 
sound  quite  sincere. 

"  But  why  not  tell  him  —  if  you  really  are  tired  ?  " 

"  I  don't  choose  to." 

She  looked  down  at  the  dog,  and  smoothed  the  light  rug 
that  lay  over  her  knees  with  one  of  her  narrow,  delicate  hands. 

"  There  were  difficulties,"  she  continued  slowly.  "  You  see 
we  had   taken  that  apartment   in   the   Barberini   Palace.     No 


!I2  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

(doubt  we  might  have  got  out  of  it,  but "  —  she  turned  and 
looked  at  Lady  Sarah  —  "I  had  no  real  reason  to  give  against 
wintering  here,  and  I  didn't  wish  to  seem  what  I  am  not." 

"What's  that,  my  dear?" 

*'  A  capricious  woman." 

**  Ar€  3'ou  never  capricious?" 

Lady  Sarah  was  smiling. 

*'  Not  with  Theo.     At  least  I  don't  think  I  am." 

She  said  the  last  words  rather  hesitatingly  and  slowly,  raising 
her  eyebrows  a  little,  and  looking  very  thoughtful  and  uncon- 
scious of  herself. 

"I  may  be  about  small  things;  buying  a  particular  dog,  or 
some  nonsense  of  that  kind.  But  not  about  the  things  that 
matter,  the  big  things  In  Theo's  life  and  mine.  I  often  think 
in  the  very  big  things  men  are  more  capricious  than  we  are." 

She  sighed  softly.  Lady  Sarah  felt  inclined  to  give  her  a 
good  hug. 

There  was  something  in  Dolores  that  appealed  to  women  as 
well  as  to  men,  a  soft  naturalness  that  was  seductive.  Yet  It 
was  Impossible  to  look  at  her  and  not  to  feel  that  if  she  once 
made  a  resolve  she  would  probably  carry  It  out  with  an  Invin- 
cible firmness.  Those  lips  were  not  pressed  together  without 
a  reason  that  lay  In  her  character.  But  the  eyes  seemed  to  say 
that  not  easily  would  she  take  a  strong  resolve. 

*'  Men  call  their  caprices  their  fates,"  said  Lady  Sarah.  "  But 
since  you  are  settled  in  Rome,  my  dear  child,  why  not  use  it  as 
I  do?" 

"As  you  do?" 

"  Yes.  I  think  you  know  how  that  is.  Rome  Is  to  me  con- 
solation." 

Dolores  moved  as  If  startled.  'Her  little  head  turned  quickly 
on  her  long  neck,  and  her  eyes  became  suddenly  bright  and 
searching  as  they  looked  into  Lady  Sarah's. 

"  Why  should  I  need  consolation  ?  "  she  said. 

And  in  her  voice  there  was  a  distinct  sound  of  defiance. 

"  Most  of  us  do,  I  believe." 

Dolores  laughed. 

"  If  I  did  do  you  think  I  could  find  it  among  marble  statues 
or  In  the  aisles  of  old  churches?" 

"  Would  you  rather  seek  for  it  in  a  cotillon  at  the  Excel- 


sior 


?  " 


"  I  didn't  say  that." 

"  Well,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  "  I  need  consolation  badly,  and 
i  find  it  in  Rome." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  13 

Dolores'  face  softened,  and  she  put  her  hand  for  a  moment 
on  her  companion's  knee. 

"  I  know,  I  know.  But  at  least  you've  had  the  only  things 
worth  having." 

"  Do  you  mean  children  ?  " 

Dolores  moved  her  head. 

"  Yes,  I  have  had  them  and  I  have  lost  them." 

Almost  with  fierceness  Dolores  said: 

"  I  envy  you !     I  envy  you !  " 

At  this  moment  Nero,  probably  feeling  neglected,  or  even 
outraged  by  his  situation  among  toes  on  a  carriage  floor,  from 
which  he  could  see  little,  made  a  convulsive  effort  to  better 
himself  by  scrambling  into  prominence.  Dolores  took  him  by 
the  neck,  with  less  than  her  usual  gentleness,  and  assisted  him 
on  to  her  knees. 

"Look  at  the  substitute  for  children  in  my  life!"  she  said. 

Suddenly  she  forgot  to  be  reticent. 

She  took  Nero's  head  between  her  hands,  and  turned  It  round 
till  the  dog  faced  Lady  Sarah. 

"There!"  she  exclaimed.     "That  Is  the  substitute." 

Nero  snuffled.  Drops  of  moisture  stood  on  his  ej^elashes.  He 
blinked  and  looked  dull  and  arrogant. 

"  The  lonely  women  with  dogs!  "  continued  Dolores.  "  Ah! 
how  the  mothers  must  laugh  at  them,  must  pity  the  poor 
things!" 

Nero  gave  a  strangled  yelp.  Unconsciously  his  mistress  had 
preyed  her  hands  rudely  against  the  delicate  dome  of  his  head. 

"  But  you  are  young,"  said  Lady  Sarah,  very  gently.  "  Per- 
haps    ..." 

"  No,  no.  I  hoped ;  for  years  I  hoped.  But  I've  given  up 
hoping.     Look!     The  carriages  are  moving!" 

The  chauffeur  with  the  fan-shaped  beard  bent  down  and  was 
going  to  press  the  button  of  his  motor,  when  one  of  the  children, 
a  boy,  who  had  scrambled  up  beside  him,  interfered,  and  evi- 
dently begged  to  be  permitted  to  do  it.  Smiling,  the  chauffeur 
took  his  small,  eager  hand  and  guided  It.  A  sudden  purring 
arose  from  the  machine.  The  little  boy,  strongly  excited  by 
his  achievement,  sprang  up  on  the  seat,  turned  round  to  old 
Grandpapa,  and  vociferously  drew  attention  to  his  triumph  as 
the  motor  moved  off.  His  rosy  face  shone  with  pride  under 
his  red  cap.  His  brothers  and  sisters  looked  at  him  with  a 
sudden  respect  and  gravity.  Grandpapa's  yellow  face  smiled, 
and  he  slowly  nodded  his  head  as  If  in  approval  of  the  great 
and  unexpected  deed. 


14  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

The  mouth  of  Dolores  became  almost  stern. 

**  Let  me  drive  you  home,"  she  said  to  Lady  Sarah. 

**  No,  my  dear;  I  am  going  into  the  church  of  the  Sacre 
Coeur  for  a  little.     But  —  won't  you  come  with  me?  " 

"  I'm  so  sorry,  but  I  have  promised  to  go  to  tea  with  Mad- 
eleine Boccara  at  the  Excelsior.     You  remember !  " 

"  To  be  sure." 

Lady  Sarah  got  out. 

"  Do  come  and  see  me  at  the  Barberlni  very  soon.  Theo 
will  like  to  see  you  too.  We  have  just  moved  in.  I  want  to 
show  you  all  we  are  doing  to  the  apartment." 

"  I  will  come  very  soon." 

"To  the  Excelsior!"  said  Dolores  to  the  footman. 

She  drove  off  with  Nero  enthroned  on  her  knee. 


CHAPTER  II 

It  was  nearly  five  o'clock  when  Dolores  arrived  at  the  Excel- 
sior Hotel.  As  she  entered  the  hall  on  the  right  of  the  tea- 
room, little  Countess  Boccara  came  to  meet  her. 

"  We  shall  be  all  alone,"  she  said  in  her  pretty,  rather  care- 
ful English.  "  So  we  can  say  all  that  is  in  our  hearts.  If 
there  is  nothing  —  then  all  that  is  in  our  heads." 

With  a  caressing  gesture  she  put  her  hand  on  the  arm  of 
Dolores,  and  led  her  into  the  tea-room. 

"  Let  us  go  into  this  corner.  But  there  are  not  many  peo- 
ple.    We  shall  be  private." 

As  she  said  this  she  glanced  eagerly  about  the  great  room 
with  eyes  that  seemed  searching  for  acquaintances.  She  nod- 
ded, lifted  her  hand  till  it  was  near  to  her  face,  and  opened  and 
half  shut  it  several  times,  smiling.  It  was  her  pose  to  be  thor- 
oughly Italian. 

"  Amalia  Brunati  with  Tito!"  she  exclaimed.  "Per  pia- 
cere  due  the,"  to  the  waiter.  "  Will  you  have  toast,  caraf " 
she  added  to  Dolores.  "  I  eat  nothing.  I  fear  so  terribly  to 
grow  like  the  elephant." 

Dolores  could  not  help  laughing. 

"  Yes,  some  toast  for  me,  please.     I  am  too  thin." 

*'  You  are  perfect,  like  the  gazelle  as  all  say." 

She  suddenly  broke  into  French,  and  continued  the  conver- 
sation in  that  language. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  15 

"  But  I  must  tell  j^ou,  cava,  that  I  was  really  born  to  be 
fat.  No!  No!" — as  Dolores  was  going  to  protest  —  "you 
do  not  know.  But  I  was!  As  a  child  I  was  enormous,  mon- 
strous! It  is  only  by  my  cleverness,  my  strong  will,  and  my 
energy  that  I  am  so  slim.  All  Rome  speaks  of  my  wonderful 
figure.  But  I  have  worked,  lived  for  it,  and  still  I  work,  I 
live  for  it.  I  do  not  eat.  I  do  not  drink  wine  but  only  Vichy 
and  Kissengen  waters.  I  do  not  rest  after  any  meal,  but  stand 
up  like  a  sentinel  at  the  Quirinal,  and  all  for  my  figure.  Some- 
one, a  philosopher  perhaps  —  it  is  always  one  of  those  tiresome 
old  philosophers!  —  has  said,  '  Everj'body  must  live  for  some- 
thing.' Well,  I  live  for  my  figure.  And  you?  But  I  know: 
You  live  for  the  adorable  doglet!" 

And  she  bent  down  her  pretty  birdlike  face,  and  pretended 
to  kiss  the  nose  of  Nero  with  lips  which  were  delicately  painted. 

A  waiter  brought  the  tea. 

"  Now  we  can  talk !  "  continued  the  Countess,  as  if  she  had 
been  silent  all  this  time.  "  Tell  me,  is  it  for  the  doglet  that 
you  live?  " 

"  I  don't  know  what  I  live  for,"  replied  Dolores. 

And  her  voice,  after  the  Countess's  gay  tones,  sounded  al- 
most somber. 

"  I  certainly  don't  live  for  Nero,"  she  added,  giving  that 
potentate  a  bit  of  buttered  toast,  which  he  took  sluggishly, 
licked,  turned  over,  and  abandoned  disdainfully  upon  the  carpet. 

"  I  shall  find  you  something  to  live  for,"  said  Countess  Boc- 
cara,  with  a  sly  inflection  of  her  voice.  "Or  —  no  —  some 
one." 

"  Oh,  if  you  speak  of  human  beings  I  have  Theo." 

"Your  beautiful  husband!     Ah!  how  handsome  he  is!'* 

"  Yes,  he  is  very  handsome." 

"  But  for  how  many  years  —  eight  —  ten ?  " 

"  I've  been  married  ten  years  exactly." 

"  For  ten  years  you  have  lived  for  the  beautiful  Theo,  and 
at  the  end  you  say,  with  a  voice  like  a  Camposanto,  that  you 
don't  know  what  you  live  for.  This  is  not  good!  We  must 
remedy  this." 

"  I  was  talking  nonsense." 

"  With  those  eyes,  that  pale  face,  and  so  tall  as  you  are! 
No.  It  is  not  for  you  to  talk  nonsense.  It  is  for  me,  with  my 
turned-up  nose  and  my  red  hair.  You  have  to  be  mysterious, 
to  suffer,  to  make  people  wonder  about  you.  And  you  have  to 
live  for  some  one.     And  I  think  I  know  for  whom." 


i6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Absurd !  "  said  Dolores. 

She  spoke  lightly,  but  her  expressive  face  had  changed.  A 
faint  look,  as  of  dawning  anxiety,  that  was  surely  the  physical 
reflection  of  a  mental  shadow,  crossed  it,  darkening  it  strangely 
for  a  moment. 

"  You  are  always  divining  secrets  that  do  not  exist/'  she 
added,  with  a  little  laugh. 

"Secrets!  Did  I  say  there  was  a  secret?"  cried  the  little 
Countess  almost  sharply. 

She  leaned  forward  over  the  tea-table,  staring  at  Dolores 
with  her  bright,  red-brown  eyes. 

"You  have  told  me!"  she  said  slowly,  nodding  her  head. 
"  You  have  told  me !  " 

"What  have  I  told  you?" 

"  Two  things.  That  you  do  not  live  for  your  beautiful 
husband,  and  that  you  have  a  secret.  Ah,  it  is  dangerous  to 
deny  what  no  one  has  suggested,  cara!" 

She  paused,  then  added  with  a  shrewdness  that  in  her  took 
the  place  of  intellectuality: 

"  It  shows  how  the  mind  is  working  far  away  under  all  the 
words." 

She  nodded  again  with  an  air  of  wisdom,  and  sipped  her 
tea,  keeping  her  ej'es  fixed  on  Dolores. 

"Are  you  going  to  hunt  this  winter?"  she  suddenly  ex- 
claimed, with  a  change  of  manner. 

"No,"   said  Dolores. 

She  spoke  with  a  decision  that  was  unexpected  even  by  her- 
self, for  till  that  m.oment  she  had  not  thought  about  the  ques- 
tion of  hunting.  A  defensive  instinct,  abruptly  developed, 
seemed  to  answer  for  her. 

"  I  shall  have  such  a  lot  to  do  getting  into  our  new  apart- 
ment," she  added,  more  easily,  "  arranging  everything,  making 
it  pretty.  There  are  endless  things  to  think  of.  Besides  there 
are  so  many  expenses.     We  shall  have  to  be  quiet  for  a  time." 

"  Quiet !  When  the  beautiful  husband  has  become  a  mil- 
lionaire! " 

"  He  hasn't.  People  exaggerate  frightfully.  Besides " — 
she  suddenly  thought  of  Lady  Sarah,  and  resolved  to  call  her 
up  as  a  reserve — "  this  winter  I  am  going  to  study." 

"Study!"  exclaimed  the  Countess,  with  half -incredulous 
amazement. 

"  Study  Rome.  I  am  ashamed  at  my  ignorance  of  Rome. 
Lady  Sarah  Ides  —  I  was  with  her  just  now  when  I  met  you 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  17 

—  is  going  to  show  me  all  the  beautiful  things  I  ought  to 
have  seen  long  ago." 

"  The  old  lady  with  the  little  hat  on  her  left  shoulder,  and 
the  veil  floating  at  —  what  is  it  when  some  one  is  dead?" 

"  Do  vou  mean  half-mast  ?  "  said  Dolores  in  English. 

"  That  is  it." 

"  She  knows  Rome.     We  don't." 

"  It  is  her  genre  to  know  Rome.     She  is  an  old  maid." 

"  Indeed  she  isn't.  She  has  been  married  and  had  two  chil- 
dren." 

"And  where  are  they?" 

"  They  are  both  dead,  her  husband  too." 

"  Poor  woman !  Then  she  must  study.  But  j'Our  husband 
is  not  dead,  and  you  have  never  lost  any  children  because,  like 
me,  you  have  never  had  any.  Children  ruin  the  figure.  I 
shall  never  have  babies." 

"  What  is  my  genre  then?  "  asked  Dolores  to  turn  the  con- 
versation. 

Although  she  was  not  a  prude,  the  extreme  frankness  of 
some  of  the  women  she  met  in  Rome  occasionally  embarrassed 
her. 

"  If  I  may  not  be  a  student,  what  may  I  be?  " 

Countess  Boccara  looked  at  Dolores  with  cool  criticism  over 
her  tea-cup. 

"  It  is  not  your  genre  to  carry  a  string  bag  full  of  Baedeker, 
to  spend  the  day  in  Catacombs  where  all  is  dark,  and  where  a 
dirty  monk  shows  you  round  with  a  tallow  candle,  and  to  go 
at  five  and  have  tea,  with  all  the  other  string  bags  from,  the 
Catacombs,  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna,  where  the  only  men  have 
red  noses,  weak  e3'es,  no  hair,  drink  cacao,  and  wipe  their  mous- 
taches, which  droop  as  the  walrus,  with  paper  napkins.    No !  no !  " 

Dolores  could  not  help  laughing  at  this  picture  of  the  lovers 
of  ancient  Rome. 

"  Your  genre  is "  she  paused. 

She  becam.e  grave,  even  earnest.  And  it  was  evident  that 
she  was  making  an  unusually  conscious  mental  effort. 

"  Your  genre  is  to  love,  to  be  loved,  and  perhaps  to  suffer 
terribly,  but  always  because  of  love.  And  you  must  do  this  in 
a  certain  milieu;  of  cultivation,  of  beauty,  of  mondanity.  You 
must  love,  you  must  suffer  en  grande  tenue,  not  with  the  little 
hat  on  the  left  shoulder,  and  the  gauze  for  the  dead,  like  the 
old  lady  who  knows  Rome.  We  are  stamped,  my  dear,  v.-hen 
we  are  born,  just  as  the  new  money  is,  and  it  is  useless  to  trv 


i8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

to  get  rid  of  our  stamp.  And  if  we  did!  Why  we  should 
not  pass  any  more!     No  one  could  buy  anything  with  us." 

"  No  one  has  bought  anything  with  me,"  said  Dolores  with 
sudden  bitterness. 

"What?  not  the  beautiful  husband?  But  he  is  so  devoted 
to  you,  is  not  he?  Has  he  not  bought  with  you  all  the  happi- 
ness of  love  ?  " 

Dolores,  if  she  had  done  the  natural  thing  at  that  moment, 
would  have  cried,  perhaps  shrieked  out:  "No!  No!  He 
has  not!  He  has  not!"  Being  who  and  what  she  was,  and 
where  she  was,  in  the  great  room  with  the  green  and  gold  col- 
umns, the  pink  and  red  carpets,  the  cleverly  arranged  lights, 
and  the  many  softly  gossiping  women,  she  said: 

"  Give  me  another  cup  of  tea,  dear.  Theo  and  I  are  a  very 
united  couple,  if  that's  what  you  mean.  But  you  see,  we  don't 
understand  life  quite  as  you  do.  We  take  matrimony  much 
more  seriously  than  you  and  your  Nino  take  it." 

The  Countess  poured  out  the  tea,  and  twisted  her  little  nose. 

"  Oh,  but  my  Nino  would  be  quite  ready  to  take  it  seriously 
if  I  would,"  she  said,  handing  the  cup. 

"Really!     Then  why  don't  you?  " 

"  Because  I  have  my  stamp.     And  it  isn't  that  sort." 

She  looked  into  a  large  mirror  near  by. 

"  With  these  clinging  gowns,  unless  one  has  a  figure  like 
mine  one  is  simply  a  terror — the  Colosseum  trying  to  be  the 
Alhambra."  Suddenly  her  pretty,  vivacious  face  was  illumi- 
nated by  a  light  of  triumph.  "  There!  And  they  say  I  know 
nothing  of  antiquities!"  she  cried. 

She  seemed  pleased  with  herself  like  a  child. 

"  How  I  wish  the  old  lady  who  knows  Rome  had  heard 
that!"  she  added.  "People  misunderstand  me.  They  say  I 
am  frivolous." 

At  this  moment  there  appeared  at  the  other  end  of  the  tea- 
room a  tall,  serious-looking  man  with  thick  fair  hair,  a  long 
nose,  and  a  monocle  unattached  to  a  string,  escorting  a  pretty, 
small  woman,  with  golden  hair,  blunt  features,  rather  promi- 
nent cheeks,  and  china  blue  eyes,  who  was  dressed  in  a  short 
green  velvet  dress,  and  who  was  accompanied  by  a  little  girl 
v/ith  a  yellow  pigtail  tied  with  an  immense  black  riband. 

"There's  Nino  with  his  last  lady  love!"  exclaimed  the 
Countess.  "  Mrs.  Tooms,  an  American.  Look,  they  are  sit- 
ting down!  Nino  won't  see  me.  He  never  sees  anything 
when  he  wears  his  monocle." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  19 

"  Do  you  know  Mrs.  Tooms  ?  " 

**  No.  But  I  know  all  I  need  to  know  about  her  —  from 
Nino.  He  does  love  telling  me  things.  And  he  tells  them 
well,  for  a  Roman.  Of  course  Parisians  are  far  more  witty. 
She's  got  a  good  figure,  but  onlj'  because  she  knows  where  to 
go  for  her  corsets.  Now  I  needn't  wear  a  corset  at  all  unless 
I  want  to.  That  makes  Nino  angry,  because  at  present  he 
wants  to  pretend  that  Mrs.  Tooms,  though  she  has  three  little 
girls,  has  a  better  figure  than  mine.  As  if  a  man  could  judge 
of  such  things!     Are  you  going  already?" 

"  I  must.     I  have  so  much  to  do  at  home  just  now." 

"  Ahvays  the  excuse  of  the  apartment!  But  wait  one  min- 
ute! When  will  you  dine  with  me?  I  want  to  give  a  little 
dinner  at  the  Grand." 

Dolores  hesitated,  with  her  large  eyes  fixed  on  the  lively  face 
of  the  Countess. 

"  No,  I'm  not  going  to  ask  the  beautiful  husband!  "  the  lat- 
ter said.  "  Nor  Nino.  What  night  is  your  husband  en- 
gaged?"_ 

"  I  believe  he's  engaged  on  Thursday  —  a  man's  dinner  at  the 
Embassy." 

"  Come  on  Thursday,  at  half-past  eight  —  Grand  Hotel." 

"  It's  very  nice  of  you,"  said  Dolores,  still  with  hesitation. 
"But  who  is  coming?" 

"  How  suspicious  you  are !  " 

The  Countess  laughed  lightly  and  merrily  like  a  mischievous 
child. 

"  If  you  are  afraid  of  any  particular  person,  tell  me.  And 
he  shall  not  be  asked." 

"  Afraid !  Whom  should  I  be  afraid  of  ?  Of  course  I  will 
come." 

"  Looking  like  a  lovely  gazelle,  with  pathetic  eyes.  Cava, 
I  will  tell  you  a  secret.  For  me  you  are  the  most  beautiful 
person  in  Rome.  You  look  as  if  you  had  lost  something,  and 
were  seeking  it  in  the  dark.  If  you  ever  find  it  —  ah!  then 
you  will  be  too  beautiful !  We  other  women  are  ahvays  pray- 
ing you  may  not.  But  I  have  never  told  you  about  Nino  at 
Monte  Carlo.     Well,  that  must  be  for  another  time !  " 

Dolores  had  not  far  to  go.  The  words  of  the  little  Count- 
ess were  still  in  her  ears  and  in  her  mind  when  the  carriage 
turned  into  the  garden  of  the  Palazzo  Barberini,  and  circled 
till  it  drew  up  under  the  colonnade. 

"  If  you  ever  find  it  —  ah!  then  you  will  be  too  beautiful!  '* 


20  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Were  the  other  women  praying?  If  so,  their  prayers  had 
been  answered  till  now.  Till  now!  They  would  always  be 
answered. 

"  What  a  ridiculous  little  fool  I  am  to  take  anything  Made- 
leine Boccara  says  seriously,"  said  Dolores  to  herself,  as  she 
m.aunted  the  shallow  stone  stairs. 

And  of  course  she  did  not  really  take  it  seriously  now  that 
she  was  self-conscious.  She  was  not  a  vain  woman,  though 
she  cared  to  look  her  best,  like  most  properly  constituted 
women.  And  she  did  not  for  a  moment  think  she  was  the  most 
beautiful  person  in  Rome,  or  even  that  the  Countess  thought 
so.  But  as  she  came  into  the  first  of  the  noble  rooms  in  their 
apartment  she  stopped  for  a  moment,  with  her  eyes  cast  down, 
and  she  said  to  herself  that  Madeleine  Boccara  had  implied 
one  thing  which  was  true.  If  she  —  Dolores  —  ever  found 
that  something  for  which  she  was  seeking  in  the  dark,  she 
would  indeed  be  far  more  beautiful.  How  well  she  knew  that! 
How  well  she  had  known  it  for  years!  For  beauty  is  com- 
pleteness, and  then  she  would  be  complete. 

"But  I'm  not  seeking!  I'm  not  seeking  any  longer!"  she 
murmured  in  her  mind,  telling  herself  a  lie.  "  And  so  it's  all 
utterly  absurd !  " 

And  she  turned  on  the  electric  light  fully,  and  began  criti- 
cally to  look  at  the  great  room. 

It  was  square  and  lofty,  with  a  painted  ceiling  on  which 
Diana  was  represented  bathing  with  attendant  nymphs  after  a 
hunting  excursion.  The  walls  were  covered  with  stamped 
Genovese  leather,  which  gave  to  the  room  a  rich  and  yet  sober 
appearance,  dignified  and  serene.  Furniture  was  scattered 
about,  but  was  not  yet  satisfactorily  arranged.  It  looked  tem- 
porary, as  if  it  had  hurriedly  been  brought  in  there,  and  would 
perhaps  soon  be  as  hurriedly  carried  out  to  some  permanent 
home.  Dolores  pressed  her  lips  together,  and  walked  on  into 
the  next  room,  switching  on  the  light  there  as  she  entered. 

This  was  to  be  her  special  room,  in  which  she  could  receive, 
but  in  which  she  also  meant  to  carry  on  many  of  her  occupa- 
tions when  she  was  alone.  Like  the  first  it  was  large  and  high 
with  a  painted  ceiling,  and  much  time  and  care  had  evidently 
been  spent  on  its  arrangement.  The  prevailing  colors  in  it 
were  a  deep  green  and  a  very  splendid  red,  almost  such  a  red 
as  Gustave  Moreau  was  obsessed  by.  Green  and  red  damask 
covered  the  walls,  and  damask  curtains,  surmounted  by  ancient 
gold  cornices,  hung  at  the  long  windows.     There  was  a  full- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  21 

sized  Stelnway  grand  piano  in  the  room.  There  were  no  pic- 
tures upon  the  walls,  but  several  stood  on  easels.  One,  by 
Lenbach,  was  of  a  very  old  man,  with  a  high  bald  forehead, 
long  gray  hair,  and  almost  transparent  temples,  on  which  veins 
like  small  dark  snakes  stood  out.  Under  bushy  eyebrows 
blazed  a  pair  of  eyes  that  looked  fierce  with  vitality,  and  an  in- 
telligence that  was  so  penetrating  as  to  be  almost  alarming. 
Another  was  by  a  follower  of  Bocklin,  and  showed  an  old 
ruddy  Italian  mansion  Svtanding  alone  at  the  edge  of  a  foaming 
sea,  which  rolled  over  sands  fringed  by  the  noble  trees  of  a 
pinewood.  A  terrace  with  immense  cypresses  faced  the  white 
waves,  over  which  seabirds  were  wheeling.  And  upon  the  red 
and  crumbling  w'all  of  the  terrace  leaned  the  figure  of  a  woman 
in  a  black  dress,  gazing  out  towards  the  horizon,  from  which 
a  storm  was  coming.  Beneath  this  landscape  was  written  In 
gold  letters:  "Donna  guarclando  il  mare."  A  third  picture 
was  a  portrait  by  Carolus-Duran  of  Dolores,  in  a  gray  and 
gold  dress,  with  a  white  Pomeranian  dog  nestled  on  the  floor 
against  her  skirt.  It  had  been  painted  very  soon  after  she 
was  married,  and  showed  a  face  in  which  there  was  a  wistful 
mystery,  but  in  which  there  was  also  hope.  A  Persian  carpet, 
in  which  many  faint  colors  blended,  covered  the  floor,  and  the 
furniture  was  skillfully  disposed  to  make  the  room,  despite  its 
large  size,  look  thoroughly  cozy  and  inhabited.  There  were 
several  big  azaleas  blooming  in  Oriental  jars,  the  air  was 
scented  with  roses,  and,  a  rare  thing  in  Rome,  a  great  many 
books  were  to  be  seen,  in  low  and  in  revolving  bookcases,  and 
scattered  over  tables.  On  the  hearth  was  burning  a  small,  but 
very  red  and  glowing,  wood  fire.  Before  it  Nero  sat  down 
with  a  heavy,  snuffling  sigh,  turning  his  back  to  his  mistress 
with  complete  disregard  of  the  proprieties. 

Dolores  stood  looking  about  her.  The  room  w^as  very  silent. 
Yet  presently  she  seemed  to  be  listening.  For  her  face  wore  a 
look  of  sad  and  strained  attention,  and  at  last  became  set  and 
rigid,  like  the  face  of  one  making  a  violent  effort  of  the  will 
or  of  the  imagination.  She  clasped  her  hands  together  with 
the  palms  held  outwards,  and  her  arms  straight  down  against 
her  body. 

Nero  sighed  again,  and  snuffled  w'ith  determination.  It 
seemed  he  had  a  cold.  He  drew  closer  to  the  fire,  still  keep- 
ing his  back  to  his  mistress.  There  was  in  his  appearance  at 
this  moment  an  extraordinary'  look  of  dull  yet  concentrated 
egoism.     Dolores    glanced    towards    him    and    unclasped    her 


22  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

hands.  And  her  face,  no  longer  rigid,  changed,  melting  into 
wistfulness  and  then  into  an  almost  despairing  sadness.  She 
went  to  the  portrait  of  herself,  stood  before  it  for  a  moment, 
then  crossed  to  a  sofa  by  the  fire,  took  off  her  hat  and  veil,  laid 
them  down  beside  her,  and  leaned  back.  And,  with  Nero, 
who  seemed  selfishly  unaware  of  her  presence,  she  stared  into 
the  red  glow,  as  the  woman  in  the  landscape  on  the  easel  stared 
across  the  sea  over  which  a  storm  was  approaching. 

She  was  roused  by  the  sound  of  the  door  by  which  she  had 
come  in  being  shut. 

''Oh,  is  that  you,  Theo?"  she  said. 

She  turned  round.  A  very  tall  and  lean,  but  well-set-up 
man  was  standing  just  at  the  threshold  of  the  room,  looking 
at  it  with  brilliant,  and  luminous,  but  rather  sad  hazel  eyes. 
He  wore  a  moustache  and  a  pointed  beard  just  touched  with 
gray.  His  very  well-formed  head  was  covered  closely  with 
straight  hair  in  which  also  there  were  many  gray  threads.  His 
complexion  was  dark  and  browned  as  if,  naturally  swarthy, 
it  had  been  much  exposed  to  the  sun  at  some  time  of  his  life. 
His  thin  artistic  hands  were  brown  too,  and  looked  eager  and 
sensitive,  and  his  features  were  regular,  sharply  cut,  and  not 
large.  There  was  something  restless  and  fiery,  something 
willful  and  critical,  in  his  appearance.  He  was  obviously  a 
very  intelligent  man,  and  he  looked  a  sincere  one.  He  looked 
also  like  a  man  who  would  be  subject  to  changing  moods,  and 
who  was  what  is  called  highly  strung.  There  was  a  certain 
resemblance  of  type  between  him  and  Dolores.  Both  were 
tall,  slight,  dark,  expressive  and  sensitive  looking.  But  there 
were  a  softness,  a  wistfulness,  and  a  mystery  in  her  which  were 
lacking  in  the  man  who  stood  near  the  door.  He  was  keenly 
masculine.  That  was  obvious.  And  it  was  equally  obvious 
that  she  was  almost  touchingly  feminine. 

''  It  is  you !     What  are  you  doing  there?  " 

She  leaned  one  arm  on  the  back  of  the  sofa,  still  turning 
round  towards  him. 

"  Looking  at  the  room,"  replied  her  husband. 

He  had  a  very  deep  and  melodious  bass  voice,  that  was  both 
strong  and  soft,  and  that  always  attracted  people  to  him. 

"  It's  beginning  to  look  like  your  room,"  he  added,  coming 
forward  slowly  till  he  could  see  the  fire,  and  Nero  seated  be- 
fore it. 

An  expression  of  distaste  twisted  his  features  as  he  perceived 
the  dog,  but  he  made  no  allusion  to  him. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  23 

"  The  first  drawing-room,  of  course,  doesn't  exist  as  yet," 
lie  continued. 

"  No.     We  must  work  at  it." 

She  stifled  a  sigh. 

"  They  really  are  splendid  rooms,"  said  Sir  Theodore.  "  We 
couldn't  have  made  a  better  choice.  But  they  need  very  per- 
fect arranging.  Luckily  you  and  I  are  no  fools  about  such 
matters,  Doloretta.  We'll  have  it  all  beautiful,  but  we'll  have 
it  cozy,  too." 

He  drew  out  a  cigar  case,  opened  it,  and  took  out  a  large, 
light-colored  Havana. 

"  I've  got  time  before  dinner,  haven't  I?  " 

A  clock  chimed, 

"Only  seven.     I  suppose  the  Tribuna  hasn't  come  yet?" 

"  I  haven't  seen  it,"  said  Dolores. 

Her  husband  lighted  his  cigar.  He  was  still  standing.  She, 
"with  a  supple  movement,  almost  like  a  child's,  had  drawn  up 
her  feet  on  to  the  sofa,  and  was  sitting  half  curled  up  among 
the  cushions. 

*'  Shall  I  ring  and  ask?  "  she  added. 

"  No,  don't  bother." 

He  seemed  to  hesitate.     Then  he  said : 

"  My  room  doesn't  do  at  all  yet." 

And  he  sat  down  in  an  armchair  and  stretched  out  his  vtry 
long  legs.  He  was  six  foot  three,  but  he  was  a  graceful  man, 
with  a  singular  ease  of  movement,  so  that  his  unusual  height 
never  struck  people  disagreeably. 

"  Are  you  glad  to  be  out  of  the  Grand  Hotel  ?  "  he  contin- 
ued, pulling  at  his  cigar. 

"  I  shall  be  when  everything  is  quite  right.  But  there  is 
always  something  dreadful  in  rooms  that  are  not  finished  and 
have  not  been  lived  in,  especially  when  they  are  so  large  as 
these." 

"  Keep  to  this  one." 

"  Yes,  but  one  feels  the  others  on  either  side." 

"  Sensitive  plant." 

He  said  it  kindly,  almost  tenderly,  and  for  a  moment  the 
lips  of  Dolores  quivered. 

"  Women  are  always  affected  by  the  little  things  connected 
with  a  house,  I  suppose,"  she  said,  with  an  effort  at  careless 
detachment. 

"  So  are  men,  if  they're  at  all  like  me,  especially  when  they're 
out  of  harness." 


24  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  sighed,  and  immediately  afterwards  Nero  sighed  too,  by 
the  fire. 

Sir  Theodore  looked  irritated. 

"  They  have  more  time  to  notice  and  feel  all  the  little 
things,"  he  added,  "  when  they  are  out  of  harness." 

Dolores  was  gazing  at  him  now,  but  he  was  not  looking  at 
her.     He  was  staring  towards  the  fire. 

"  Aren't  you  accustomed  yet  to  being  out  of  harness,  Theo?  " 
she  said.     "It's  a  year  now." 

"  Yes,  just  a  year  since  we  came  to  Rome,  free  people.  I'm 
thankful  to  be  here  instead  of  up  in  the  Northern  snows.  But 
still  —  well,  I  wish  I  were  in  Vienna,  Doloretta,  as  Ambassa- 
dor. I  confess  that.  You  would  have  made  a  delicious  am- 
bassadress.    I  should  have  been  proud  of  you." 

"As  an  ambassadress?" 

She  spoke  with  an  emphasis  that  attracted  his  attention.  He 
looked  away  from  the  fire,  in  which,  perhaps,  he  had  seen  the 
Embassy  at  Vienna, 

"What  is  it,  Doloretta?" 

"  Only  that  I  can't  help  wishing  I  were  Her  Excellency," 
she  answered  lightly. 

He  looked  at  her  Intently. 

"  Were  you  ambitious  too  ?  "  he  asked.  "  Somehow,  I  never 
thought  so.     Were  you  really  ambitious?" 

"Why  not?     Isn't  It  natural  I  should  be?" 

"  But  then,  what  a  secretive  Gazelle  you  are!" 

He  drew  his  chair  forward  a  little  nearer  to  the  sofa. 

"  Were  you  very  vexed  with  me  for  retiring?  "  he  said. 

"  I  was  very  sorry  you  retired." 

"For  yourself?" 

"  I  was  sorry  on  all  accounts.  I  didn't  think  you  were  the 
sort  of  man  who  could  be  happily  Idle." 

"  But  I've  got  so  many  tastes,  so  many  hobbies." 

He  paused.     Dolores  was  silent. 

"Haven't  I?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Surely,"  he  spoke  with  a  certain  pressure  —  "  surely  I  could 
fill  up  my  time  far  better  than  the  average  man?" 

"  Are  you  happily  idle  then  ?  " 

She  on  her  side  showed  curiosity,  and  she  leaned  forward  as 
she  put  the  question, 

"Why  not?" 

"You  are!" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  25 

"  I'm  free  of  a  great  many  duties  that  were  tiresome,  that 
bored  me,  that  would  have  been  increased  had  I  been  miade 
an  ambassador.  You  have  no  idea  —  but  of  course  you  have. 
Even  at  Tangier  we  had  enough  social  ennui,  hadn't  we?" 

"  Let  us  congratulate  ourselves  on  our  escape !  " 

Since  he  did  not  choose  to  be  frank,  neither  did  she.  Her 
voice  seemed  to  imply  that. 

"  We  can  both  pursue  our  hobbies  ferociously,"  she  added. 
"  I  my  music,  my  reading,  j-ou  your  antiquity  hunting  and 
your  fox  hunting,  your  motoring,  your  sketching,  your  Rus- 
sian. You  can  write  a  play  if  you  like.  When  we  were  at 
Tangier  you  often  said  you  wished  you  had  time  to  try  to  write 
a  play " 

She  broke  off.  She  was  not  a  good  hand  at  sarcasm,  and  vras 
soon  exhausted  by  an  effort  unnatural  to  her. 

"  When  one  has  no  time  for  things  one  longs  to  do  them. 
But  when  one  has  unlimited  time  one  sometimes  realizes  one's 
limitations  unpleasantly.  I  have  diplomatic  gifts.  But  as  to 
becoming  a  writer  of  plays,  or,  in  fact  of  anything  else  —  now, 
it's  too  late.     At  fifty  one  is  formicd,  if  not  deform.ed." 

Perhaps  her  attempt  at  satire  had  turned  him  towards  the 
truth  he  had  seemed  anxious  to  avoid.  For  now  he  said,  with 
a  new  gravity: 

"  Doloretta,  it  is  getting  in  here,  into  this  apartment,  that 
has  done  it." 

"Done  what,  Theo?" 

"  Made  me  understand  what  a  deuce  of  a  mistake  I  made  in 
resigning.  As  long  as  we  were  sur  la  branche,  in  hotels,  m,ov- 
ing,  staying  in  other  people's  houses,  I  could  deceive  myself, 
could  pretend  I  was  taking  a  holiday.  But  now  we  are  set- 
tled, or  nearly  settled,  the  truth  appears,  and  it  is  naked  as 
Adam  before  the  Fall.  The  very  first  night  we  slept  in  this 
apartment  I  realized  Avhat  a  fool  I  had  been." 

Dolores  had  wanted  the  truth.  Now  that  she  had  got  it  she 
looked  troubled. 

"  Did  you?  "  she  said,  and  her  voice  was  blank. 

Her  husband  got  up  and  stood  by  the  fireplace,  which  was 
deep  and  high,  and  was  surm.ounted  by  a  handsome  stone  man- 
telpiece with  columns,  and  a  frieze  of  little  dancing  boys. 

"  Yes.  It  is  in  one's  home  that  one  knows  the  real  truth  of 
one's  life." 

''Is  it?" 

"  But  surelv  vou.  a  woman,  must  know  that  better  than  I!  " 


26  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  leaned  one  arm  against  the  frieze,  and  looked  down  on 
her  from  his  great  height.  And  his  eyes  were  very  earnest  as 
he  went  on. 

"  Outside,  one  is  taken  by  the  world,  one  is  deafened  by 
voices,  blinded  by  the  cloud  of  little  things  that  sweep  upon 
one  like  locusts  and  blot  out  the  reality  in  which  one  is.  One 
might  be  anywhere.  One  doesn't  see.  But  in  one's  own  home 
one  sees.     And  now  we  are  at  home." 

"  Yes." 

"  When  you  come  to  think  of  it,  Doloretta,  this  is  really  the 
first  time  since  we've  been  married  that  we've  been  in  our  very 
own  home,  chosen  by  ourselves,  in  a  place  we  selected.  For  a 
diplomatist  is  always  on  the  move,  and  has  to  go  where  he  is 
sent,  and  get  what  house  or  flat  he  can." 

"  Yes." 

Though  Dolores  was  monosyllabic  her  eyes  w^ere  becoming 
almost  horribly  eloquent  as  she  looked  up  at  her  husband.  In 
their  depths  fear  seemed  to  lurk.  Yet  they  asked  for  more 
truth.  And  it  seemed  that  he  saw  only  that  demand  and  not 
the  fear  behind  it.     For  he  continued : 

"Ten  years  married  and  this  really  our  first  home!  Our 
•wn  shell!  It  is  no  wonder,  I  suppose,  that  it  comes  upon  me 
almost  as  a  shock." 

"  A  shock  —  to  be  in  your  own  home !  " 

"  The  novelty  of  it.  It  certainly  is  a  beautiful  home  in  a 
beautiful  city,  but  still " 

"  Theo,"  she  said,  and  her  manner  and  voice  had  completely 
changed,  were  now  eager,  almost  nervously  anxious.  "  You  are 
like  me.  You  are  feeling  the  unfinished  rooms  on  either  side. 
That's  what  it  is.  For  a  man  you  are  very  sensitive.  You 
ought  never  to  have  come  in  here  till  everything  was  in  per- 
fect order.  I  oughtn't  to  have  let  you  come.  You  have  begun 
with  a  wrong  impression.  You  dear  old  Theo!  " — she  smiled, 
raising  her  eyebrows  a  little  —  "  you  were  always  depressed  — 
don't  you  remember?  —  when  we  arrived  in  the  new  places 
you  were  accredited  to." 

"  Was  I  ?  But  I  didn't  say  I  was  depressed  now,  Dolo- 
retta." 

"  You  are.  And  it  was  always  so.  I  recollect  perfectly  well 
how  miserable  you  were  the  first  few  days  at  the  Hague." 

"Oh,  the  Hague!" 

"  And  it  was  just  the  same  at  Tangier." 

"  No,  there  you're  really  wrong,  Doloretta." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  27 

He  spoke  decisively,  and  looked  at  her  with  a  new,  keen 
penetration. 

"  There  you're  bluffing,"  he  said. 

He  came  away  from  the  fireplace. 

"  Bluffing!  "  she  exclaimed,  almost  as  if  in  anger. 

"  Yes." 

He  sat  down  beside  her  on  the  sofa,  after  removing  her  hat 
and  veil,  and  putting  them  on  a  table  close  by. 

"  Why  are  you  trying  to  blufiE?  " 

She  looked  down.  Her  long  eyelashes  showed  against  the 
beautiful  pallor  of  her  face.  Her  husband  noticed  them,  and 
remembered  how  he  had  delighted  in  them  when  he  first  fell  in 
love  with  Dolores.  It  had  perhaps  been  very  absurd,  but  he 
believed  that  he  had  first  fallen  in  love  with  those  long  and 
curling  eyelashes.  They  had  seemed  to  mean  —  what  ?  A 
whole  world  of  delicious,  sensitive,  shrinking,  promising  woman- 
liness as  they  showed  against  the  soft  cheeks.  They  had  touched 
him,  he  remembered,  in  the  innermost  part  of  his  nature;  had 
stirred  within  him  a  protective  instinct  that  was  acquisitive 
and  not  wholly  without  brutality;  they  had  filled  him  with  the 
mysterious  longings  of  a  complete  man,  longings  that  come 
surely  from  God,  and  reach  out  towards  God,  and  that  make  a 
man  glow  with  a  splendid  wonder  at  himself,  at  the  stirring 
of  the  strange  living  force  which  is  his  essence. 

Now,  as  he  looked  at  them,  he  still  felt  a  tenderness,  a  pro- 
tectiveness,  but  he  felt  also  a  sense  of  frustration  that  was  cold 
and  almost  terrible. 

"  What  is  the  good  of  it  ?  "  he  said  after  a  pause. 

Dolores  still  looked  down  in  silence,  without  moving. 

"  Come  with  me,"  said  her  husband,  as  if  taking  a  sudden 
resolution. 

He  stretched  out  his  brown,  eager-looking  hand,  and  took 
one  of  her  hands,  and  got  up.  She  obeyed  his  movement,  and 
he  led  her  through  the  beautiful,  but  still  partially  chaotic 
apartment,  into  the  room  that  was  to  be  his,  the  boudoir,  the 
great  dining-room,  the  hall,  into  their  immense  bedroom  and 
the  rooms  for  guests.  In  all,  except  in  their  bedroom  and  in 
the  room  they  had  quitted,  the  furniture  was  not  yet  arranged. 
In  some  the  curtains  were  not  yet  hung  nor  the  carpets  laid 
down. 

"It's  not  ready!  It's  not  in  order,  Theo!"  Dolores  kept 
murmuring.  "Wait  a  little!  .You  must  give  me  time, 
Theo!" 


23  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  said  nothing,  only  clasped  her  hand  more  tightly  and  led 
her  on. 

"  You  oughtn't  to  have  come  in  till  everything  was  ready," 
she  said.     "  I  always  knew  it.     I  always  knew!  " 

At  last  they  returned  to  her  drawing-room.  Sir  Theodore 
shut  the  door  behind  them. 

"This  room  is  ready,  isn't  it?"  he  said.  "Isn't  It,  Dolo- 
retta?" 

"  Yes,"  she  answered. 

"  And  Isn't  It  In  just  this  room  that  one  feels  It  most  ? 
Doesn't  It  cut  into  you  most  sharply,  deeply,  here?  " 

"Cut  into  you  —  what?" 

For  an  instant  there  was  the  look  almost  of  a  supplicating 
slave  in  her  small  face. 

"  The  truth,  that  we  are  failures,  you  and  I,  Doloretta." 

With  an  abrupt  movement  he  sprang  forward  to  the  hearth 
where  Nero,  who  had  taken  no  notice  of  their  departure  or 
return,  was  still  sitting  In  a  humped  position,  looking  egoistic 
and  dull,  caught  the  dog  up  by  the  scruff  of  his  neck,  and  held 
him  at  arm's  length  towards  Dolores. 

'^  This  is  all  we've  got !  Does  this  make  a  home  for  a  man?  " 
he  said,  almost  with  violence. 

Nero  struggled,  writhed,  coughed,  blinked,  and  shed  drops 
of  sticky  moisture  from  his  bulging  eyes. 

"  Look  at  It !  All  we've  got,  you  and  I,  to  make  a  home  — 
after  ten  years !  " 

He  dropped  the  now  shrieking  dog  to  the  carpet. 

"  And  each  other,  Theo?  And  our  love?  "  almost  whispered 
Dolores. 

Over  her  white  face  a  flush,  that  was  like  a  flush  of  shame, 
had  spread.     Her  husband  stared  at  the  carpet. 

"  Forgive  me !  Forgive  me !  "  he  said  at  last,  slowly  and 
without  looking  at  his  wife.  "  But  —  I've  been  to  Denzil's  to- 
day, and     ..." 

"  I  knew  it!  "  said  Dolores.     "  I  knew  It!  " 


CHAPTER    III 

Francis  Denzil  had  been  Sir  Theodore's  best  man  when  he 
and  Dolores  were  married,  and  had  himself  been  married  six 
weeks  later  to  Edna  Masslngham,  a  girl  of  whom  It  had  been 
often  said  by  her  friends  and  acquaintances,  "  Edha  ought  to 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  29 

get  a  good  husband.  She  would  make  such  a  perfect  wife  and 
mother."  She  had  now  fulfilled  her  destiny.  She  had  weeded 
the  man  she  loved  and  had  become  the  mother  of  three  children, 
a  boy  and  two  girls.  Sir  Theodore  was  the  eldest  child's,  the 
boy's,  godfather,  and  this  adored  firstborn  had  been  called  by 
his  name. 

Francis  Denzil,  like  Sir  Theodore,  had  entered  the  diplo- 
matic service,  but,  unlike  his  friend,  he  had  remained  in  it, 
and  was  now,  at  the  age  of  forty,  Councillor  of  the  British 
Embassy  in  Rome,  after  periods  of  service  at  Berlin,  Paris, 
Belgrade  and  other  places.  Although  apparently  a  satisfactory, 
and  certainly  a  clever  and  industrious  diplomatist,  Denzil  lacked, 
or  was  thought  by  some  to  lack,  more  than  one  of  the  qualifi- 
cations for  complete  success  in  the  profession  he  had  adopted. 
He  cared  little  for  society,  and  was  by  nature  what  the  English 
sometimes  call  "  a  home  bird."  Simple  and  direct  in  manner 
he  was  uncompromising  in  opinion.  He  v^as  not  supple  or 
adaptable,  never  pretended  to  care  for  anything  he  did  not  like, 
however  fashionable  it  might  chance  to  be  at  the  moment,  and 
was  so  honest  and  genuine  that  the  socially  insincere  thought 
him  brusque.  He  hated  cards,  had  given  up  dancing  when  he 
married,  and  never  dreamed  of  flirting  with  his  neighbor's  wife. 
Although  he  did  not  wear  glasses,  and  his  gray  eyes,  set  wide 
apart  in  his  large  head,  looked  as  if  they  saw  very  w'ell  ail  that 
was  going  on  around  him,  he  was  in  reality  short-sighted.  This 
fact,  which  was  unknown  to  most  people,  caused  him  to  stare 
sometimes  at  those  about  him  in  a  manner  which  disconcerted 
them,  and  which  had  earned  for  him  the  name  of  "  the  basilisk.'* 
In  fulfilling  what  he  regarded  as  his  diplomatic  duties  he  was 
indefatigable,  but  he  did  not  seem  to  consider  that  among  them 
was  numbered  the  duty  of  being  socially  charming  to  those  for 
whom  he  cared  nothing,  or  of  whom  he  actively  disapproved. 
One  fascinating  woman,  half  Polish,  half  Sicilian,  when  the  new 
Councillor  was  once  being  discussed  in  her  presence  by  a  coterie 
of  Romans,  had  dismissed  liim  with  five  words  of  mingled 
French  and  Italian,  "  C'est  un  Anglais,  e  hasta." 

Mrs.  Denzil  was  charming  for  both  herself  and  her  husband. 
She  had  loved  and  married  him  for  his  strong  honesty  and  his 
absolute  sincerity,  and  had  ever  since  laid  herself  out  to  make 
up  for  his  social  shortcomings,  which  she  seldom  hinted  at  to 
him,  and  which  she  secretly  adored. 

She  was  not  beautiful,  and  when  beside  a  woman  like  Dolores 
looked  plain,  but  everybody  thought  her,  and  called  her,  a  charm- 


30  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Ing  woman.  On  her  mother's  side  she  was  Italian  and  she  was 
rather  dark  than  fair,  with  a  good  figure,  pretty  hair,  and  grace- 
ful movements.  But  her  features  were  irregular  and  indefinite, 
and  she  had  one  decided  defect,  a  cast  in  the  left  eye.  Some- 
how —  for  cannot  the  charming  woman  achieve  the  miraculous 
at  will?  —  Mrs,  Denzil  became  additionally  attractive  by  reason 
of  this  defective  eye.  It  appealed,  and  not  in  vain,  to  the  hearts 
oi  both  women  and  men.  It  gave  to  her  face  a  look  of  excep- 
tional, and  tenderly  odd  naturalness,  as  if  she  gazed  at  you  like 
that,  de  travers,  because  she  knew  you  were  really  her  friend 
and  wouldn't  mind.  It  established  a  sort  of  confidential 
relation  with  you,  as  a  told  secret  may.  Very  few  could  re- 
sist it,  but  of  that  fact  Mrs.  Denzil  seemed  quite  unaware. 
She  had  no  self-consciousness,  and  lived  genuinely  for,  and  in, 
others. 

Denzil  worshiped  his  wife  and  his  children,  but  it  is  doubt- 
ful whether  he  realized  how  much  the  former  was  perpetually 
doing,  without  ostentation,  to  further  his  career.  He  was  am- 
bitious, and  meant  to  rise  to  the  top  of  his  profession,  and  to  be 
a  successful  ambassador.  And  he  knew  that  his  brains  and  his 
talents  entitled  him  to  succeed  where  others,  far  less  clever  than 
himself,  had  managed  to  avoid  failure.  But,  with  his  nature, 
he  could  not  perceive  his  shortcomings  on  the  social  side  of  life, 
and  therefore  could  not  see  clearly  how  his  wife,  without  ever 
acknowledging  them,  strove  to  cover  them  up.  If  he  did  a 
brusque  thing  to  some  one  she  did  something  charming  to  the 
same  person.  If  he  made  a  gaffe,  as  he  occasionally  did,  she 
acted  the  repentance  which  seldom  dawned  in  his  mind  or  heart. 
If  he,  being  short-sighted,  passed  some  one  y/hom  he  did  not 
specially  approve  of,  and  who  had  fallen  among  thieves,  by  on 
the  other  side,  she  played  the  part  of  the  good  Samaritan  and 
was  liberal  with  the  oil  and  wine  and  the  money  for  the  land- 
lord. 

The  Denzils  were  not  very  well  of^  for  people  in  diplomacy, 
and  therefore,  having  three  angels,  they  were  obliged  to  be 
careful.  And  here  again  Mrs.  Denzil  did  wonders  without  let- 
ting them  be  known.  She  practised  an  economy  that  was  as 
secret  as  if  it  had  been  criminal.  And  this  virtue  in  her  was 
the  more  gracious,  because  she  was  naturally  open-handed.  So 
was  her  husband.  But  whereas  he  often  gave  way  to  his  im- 
pulse, and  for  that  was  praised  and  admired,  Mrs.  Denzil  us- 
ually did  secret  violence  to  hers,  and,  but  for  her  charm  and 
clever  privacy,  might  have  been  considered  close  and  contriving. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  31 

As  it  was  she  just  escaped,  and  was  only  dubbed  by  a  few  Eng- 
lish, "  an  admirable  manager,"  and  by  some  Italians  "  una 
buona  donna  di  casa." 

She  was  always  well  though  quietly  dressed,  and  always  per- 
fectly coiffee;  but  no  one  ever  saw  her  in  a  really  expensive 
gown,  except  perhaps  now  and  then  at  a  Court  ball ;  and  she 
had  never  worn  a  hat  that  cost  as  much  as  five  pounds,  unless 
some  relation  had  given  it  to  her. 

Of  the  three  children  who  had  increased  and  fortified  the 
Denzils'  love,  Theodore,  the  eldest,  was  eight  years  and  some 
months  old,  Iris  was  six,  and  Viola  was  three.  Theodore  re- 
sembled his  mother  in  one  important  respect.  He  was  plain, 
but  so  charming  that  no  one  ever  thought  coldly  about  his 
looks,  or  "  picked  them  to  pieces."  His  little  nose  was  not 
very  well  formed,  but  it  looked  so  innocent,  and  turned  up 
slightly  above  such  a  kind  and  trustful  small  mouth,  and  below 
a  pair  of  such  sincere  and  friendly  brown  eyes,  that  most  of  the 
boy  Theo's  friends  would  have  been  shocked  and  grieved  had 
it  abruptly  become  Grecian.  His  hair  was  brown  and  quite 
straight,  and  often  hung  down  near  his  ej^es.  He  was  ver>' 
slight,  a  mere  wisp  of  a  boy,  but  agile,  gentle  but  plucky,  and 
extremely  considerate  of  the  feelings  of  others.  Indeed  in  a 
child  his  thoughtfulness  for  those  around  him  was  almost  un- 
canny. It  was,  perhaps,  this  trait  in  her  little  son  that  Mrs. 
Denzil  most  loved.  As  to  his  brains  they  were  almost  as  good 
as  his  heart.  He  was  quick-witted,  very  ardent  and  imagi- 
native, and  full  of  fire.  And  he  had  a  marked  sense  of  what 
was  dramatic. 

Iris  was  a  serious  child,  short-sighted  like  her  father,  and 
staring  somewhat  in  his  manner.  She  was  kind  but  rather 
deliberate,  and  liked  to  sum  people  up  before  she  admitted 
them  within  the  golden  circle  of  her  confidence.  When  with 
those  she  did  not  care  about  she  sometimes  had  an  air  of  boredom 
that  was  comic.  Her  father  called  her  "  the  female  diploma- 
tist," and  declared  that  he  often  took  her  opinion  when  he  was 
doubtful  about  any  point  connected  with  foreign  policy,  and  that 
she  always  guided  him  aright.  She  was  pretty  and  fair,  rather 
massive,  and  had  a  will  of  iron,  which  could,  however,  be  made 
almost  as  wax  by  music,  to  which  she  was  fervently  devoted. 
As  wax  melts  before  a  hot  fire  so  would  the  iron  will  of  Iris 
melt  before  a  tune.  She  always  looked  the  picture  of  health, 
and  had  never  had  a  serious  illness. 

Little  Viola  was  more   like  her  brother,   but  she  was   less 


32  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

fiery  and  dramatic  than  he  was,  and  occasionally  indulged  in 
languors  that  seemed  willful.  iHer  father  said  that  she  gave 
herself  airs,  but  he  loved  her  airs.  She  had  less  will  than 
Iris,  but  more  quickness  of  mind  and  more  charm.  By  accom- 
modating herself  to  people  she  attracted  them  to  her,  and  estab- 
lished an  ascendancy  over  them,  whereas  Iris  appeared  to  wish 
for  a  worthy  circle  of  friends  who  would  suit  themselves  to 
her  without  giving  her  trouble.  Iris  had  something  of  the 
judge  in  her  composition,  Viola  much  of  the  siren. 

Of  these  three  children,  Theodore  had  been  born  in  Paris, 
Iris  in  Belgrade,  Viola  in  Athens.  Theodore  already  spoke 
three  languages  —  English,  French,  and  Italian ;  the  last  not 
well.     And  he  and  his  sisters  were  quite  cosmopolitan. 

Although  Mrs.  Denzil  understood  the  art  of  dress,  and  was 
full  of  natural  charm,  she  was  not  a  woman  of  m.uch  knowledge, 
and  had  something  of  the  average  Italian's  carelessness  and 
ignorance  in  all  matters  connected  with  houses,  their  decora- 
tion and  arrangement.  She  did  not  put  up  white  lace  curtains 
in  front  of  her  windows,  and  pin  photographs  and  picture  post- 
cards on  them,  or  set  Japanese  fans  in  the  grate,  but  she  had 
little  of  that  sense  of  the  beauty  and  comfort  desirable  in  living 
rooms  Vi^hich  is  characteristic  of  most  modern  Englishwomen 
in  her  class  of  life. 

Although  her  father  had  been  an  Englishman  she  was  on  the 
whole  more  Italian  than  English,  and  she  showed  this  in  many 
ways,  among  them  in  this  lack  of  the  English  sense  of  household 
coziness  and  beauty.  She  was  careful  to  have  a  good  cook,  and 
was  never  untidy.  But  she  did  not  mind  combinations  of  color 
that  would  have  rendered  life  hideous  to  Dolores,  and  an  ar- 
rangement of  furniture  so  formal  as  to  chill  her  to  the  bone. 
Francis  Denzil  had  better  taste  in  these  respects  than  his  wife, 
but  he  was  the  type  of  man  who  leaves  these  things  to  the 
woman  if  he  has  one  in  his  life.  He  always  took  Edna's  advice 
when  they  had  to  choose  a  new  abode.  And  as  he  left  to  her 
the  engaging  of  servants,  the  selecting  of  clothes  for  the  children, 
and  the  leaving  of  cards,  so  he  left  to  her  the  arrangement  of 
furniture,  the  placing  of  cushions,  and  the  decoration  of  rooms. 
Only  in  his  own  sitting-room  did  he  allow  himself  a  free  hand. 
And  his  free  hand  meant  plenty  of  newspapers,  books  and  cigars, 
a  very  large  writing-table,  capacious  chairs,  and  a  window 
thrown  wide  open. 

Sir  Theodore  and  Denzil  had  been  friends  from  their  youth, 
although  there  was  a  difference  of   ten  years  in   their  ages. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  33 

Their  families  lived  in  the  same  county,  Worcestershire.  The 
fact  that  both  had  chosen  the  same  profession  had  perhaps  drawn 
them  more  closely  together.  But  it  had  also  often  put  leagues 
of  space  between  them.  Never  since  their  respective  marriages 
had  they  been  accredited  to  the  same  embassy.  And  so  it  had 
chanced  that  till  Sir  Theodore  retired  the  intercourse  between 
the  friends  and  their  wives  had  been  rare,  and  had  taken  place  in 
England  during  periods  of  leave. 

Dolores  had  never  regretted  this.  She  admired  Edna  Denzil's 
character.  She  respected  her.  She  even  felt  her  charm  and 
liked  her.  But  she  wished  to  be  far  away  from  her.  For  Mrs. 
Denzii  was  the  fruitful  and  she  was  the  barren  vine.  It  tor- 
tured Dolores  to  see  the  happy  Denzii  household,  to  return 
from  it  to  her  own  empty  and  silent  interior.  It  tortured  her 
still  more  to  knovv'  that  her  husband  saw  it,  compared  the  one 
home  with  the  other,  compared  his  —  the  barren  vine  —  with 
his  friend's  vine  that  was  fruitful. 

Mrs.  Denzii  had  the  boy  Theo,  Iris  and  Viola.  She,  Dolores, 
had  —  some  dog. 

When,  a  year  ago,  Sir  Theodore  had  retired,  he  and  his  wife 
had  come  to  Rome  for  the  winter,  partly  because  Rome  was  a 
delightful  city  to  winter  in,  but  partly  also  because  Denzii  was 
Councillor  of  the  British  Embassy.  Dolores  had  not  liked  to 
resist  her  husband's  suggestion  that  they  should  pass  six  months 
in  Rome.  She  was  a  very  sensitive  woman,  but  she  was  also, 
despite  her  almost  clinging  femininity,  a  proud  woman.  And 
she  thought  that  jealousy  was  the  most  humiliating  of  the  mental 
and  affectional  afflictions  of  poor  humanity.  To  feel  jealousy 
was  to  feel  as  if  one  were  being  rolled  in  the  dust.  To  shov/ 
jealousy!  That  was  to  summon  the  world  to  look  at  your 
degradation. 

So  the  Cannynges  came  to  Rome  and  stayed  in  the  Grand 
Hotel  for  the  winter. 

From  the  first  week  of  their  arrival  Dolores  dated  the  be- 
ginning for  her  of  a  period  of  secret  misery,  which  seemed  to 
increase  day  by  day  till  it  held  her  in  a  cold  grip  that  was 
like  a  grip  of  iron. 

Naturally  Sir  Theodore,  now  released  from  work,  saw  a 
great  deal  of  his  friend,  Denzii.  Naturally  he  was  often  in 
Denzil's  flat  in  the  Via  Venti  Settembre.  And  there  he  was 
greeted  by  little  voices,  was  made  a  slave  by  little  tyrants. 
There  he  found  the  family,  which  at  the  Grand  Hotel  was  rep- 
resented by  Apache,  a  bull  terrier,  the  predecessor  of  Nero. 


34  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Sir  Theodore  was  one  of  those  men  in  whom  the  natural  in- 
stinct of  man  to  reproduce  his  species  was  almost  a  passion.  He 
loved  children,  and,  because  of  that,  children  loved  him.  They 
went  to  him  at  once,  as  a  puppy  goes  to  a  dog  lover,  with  per- 
fect confidence  and  almost  in  a  hurry,  intent  on  sympathy  and 
petting.  And,  of  course,  they  got  both.  He  understood  chil- 
dren. And  he  had  meant  with  all  his  soul  to  have  children  of 
his  own.  And  Sir  Theodore's  meaning  was  no  slight  thing. 
In  his  nature  there  was  much  intensity.  Even  his  hands  showed 
that  to  the  keen  observer.  He  had  Celtic  and  Latin  blood  in 
his  veins,  Irish  and  Cornish  strains,  and  French  blood  through 
his  mother. 

Yet  he  did  not  marry  till  he  was  forty. 

This  delay  was  caused  by  his  strong  hold  upon  the  genuine, 
the  central  things  of  life.  He  was  not  a  man  who  could  marrj' 
merely  in  order  to  have  children.  Perfect  children  such  as  he 
desired,  could  only  spring,  he  believed,  from  the  strong  love 
of  a  man  and  a  woman,  must  be  the  beautiful  effect  of  a 
beautiful  cause.  In  his  youth  he  loved  and  he  loved  tragically. 
His  fiancee  M^as  burnt  to  death  at  a  Christmas-tree  party  three 
weeks  before  the  day  fixed  for  his  wedding.  Fourteen  years 
passed  by  before  he  again  lighted  his  torch  at  the  sacred  fire. 
He  met  Dolores,  then  a  mere  girl,  in  Paris,  where  she  was 
passing  a  few  weeks  of  the  spring  with  her  parents,  and  where 
he  was  attached  to  the  British  Embassy.  He  fell  deeply  in 
love  with  her. 

Sir  Theodore  was  one  of  those  mercurial  warm-blooded  and 
highly  intelligent  men  who  remain  always  young  and  ardent. 
At  thirty-nine  he  was  more  fascinating  than  most  of  the  gay 
youths  who  were  dancing,  flirting  and  proposing  in  Paris.  He 
completely  captivated  Dolores,  and,  when  she  was  just  under 
twenty  and  he  was  just  forty,  they  were  married.  Both  thought 
that  they  were  entering  a  Paradise  which  was  the  anteroom  to 
Heaven.  And  for  a  time  they  dwelt  in  Paradise.  But  when 
they  sought  to  pass  on  they  found  that  the  door  which  opened  to 
the  Denzils  remained  firmly  closed  against  them.  For  a  long 
time  they  beat  at  that  door.  Then  at  last  they  recoiled.  And 
were  they  still  in  Paradise?  Neither  ever  asked  the  other. 
And  their  silence  gradually  became  like  a  cloud  which  enveloped 
them. 

Never  had  it  been  broken  until  that  evening  when  Sir  Theo- 
dore, returning  from  a  visit  to  the  Denzils  where  he  had  been 
playing  with  the  children,  found  Dolores  alone  with  Nero  in 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  35 

their  unfinished  apartment.  That  evening  the  cloud  was  split 
asunder  as  b)'  lightning. 

Such  an  outburst  from  her  husband  was  unprecedented.  Yet 
it  did  not  surprise  Dolores.  On  the  contrary,  it  seemed  to  her 
inevitable.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the  previous  winter  they  had 
passed  in  Rome,  as  if  the  days  of  this  subsequent  autumn,  had 
been  but  a  prolonged  preparation  for  her  husband's  cry  as  he 
held  the  writhing  dog  towards  her. 

For  fourteen  years  Theo  had  foregone  the  chance  of  having 
children  because  of  his  secret  romance,  had  curbed  his  great 
desire  lest  he  should  stumble  blindly  into  the  second  best,  which 
is  the  shadow  of  love.  Knowing  the  ardor  of  his  temperament 
Dolores  knew  what  that  period  of  waiting  must  have  cost  him. 

And  since  then  he  had  waited  ten  years. 

So  long  as  he  had  remained  in  diplomacy  he  had  maintained  a 
strong  hold  on  the  zest  and  the  glory  of  life.  For  he  was  a 
man  with  ambition,  and  had  a  quick  intellect  as  well  as  an 
eager  heart.  Even  when  he  had  left  the  diplomatic  service,  in 
a  fit  of  irritation  and  disappointment  brought  on  by  his  not 
receiving  the  post  at  Vienna  which  he  considered  his  due,  he 
had  not  seen  quite  clearly,  perhaps,  the  failure  of  his  life.  But 
Dolores  had  known  that  he  would  see  it,  that  a  day  must  come 
when  the  last  covering  w^ould  be  stripped  away  and  the  naked 
truth  appear.  She  had  been  dreading  the  dawning  of  that  day, 
she  had  made  desperate  efforts  to  delay  its  arrival,  had  striven 
to  fill  Theo's  life,  to  occupy  his  mind,  to  entertain  his  intellect, 
to  find  food  for  his  attention.  But  when  he  was  not  with  her, 
and  she  knew  he  was  at  the  Denzils',  she  felt  the  advance  of 
the  moment  she  feared,  and  she  tried  to  brave  herself  to  en- 
counter It.  Women  often  know  what  must  come  when  men 
do  not,  and  women  who  love  deeply  know  best  of  all.  Dolores 
loved  her  husband  deeply,  and  she  had  long  realized  what  effect 
the  intercourse  with  the  Denzils  must  have  upon  him.  Never- 
theless the  egoism  of  his  cry  had  cut  her  to  the  quick. 

Her  heart  seemed  to  be  laid  bare,  abruptly,  ruthlessly.  She 
gazed  at  it  and  shuddered.  And  that  vision  had  drawn  from 
her  the  murmur,  almost  a  sigh,  In  which  for  a  moment  pride 
was  submerged  by  love.  Then  as  her  husband  asked  mechanic- 
ally for  forgiveness,  and  almost  simultaneously  seemed  to  seek 
justification  by  his  mention  of  the  Denzils,  Dolores  spoke  her 
three  words,  took  up  her  hat  and  veil,  and  went  quietly  out  of 
the  mom. 

"  Forgive  me !     Forgive  me !  "     Her  husband's  exclamation 


36  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

still  rang  in  her  ears.  But  she  knew  that  what  he  was  trying 
to  do  in  his  heart  was  this:  he  was  trying  to  forgive  her  for 
never  having  borne  him  a  child. 

That  was  what  ten  years  of  devotion  to  her  husband  had 
ended  in.     That  was  the  reward  of  her  love. 

As  she  opened  the  door  and  came  into  their  big  bedroom  — 
new  home  of  their  m.arried  life  —  she  felt  physically  numb. 
She  put  away  the  hat  and  veil,  and  remained  standing  in  the 
middle  of  the  room. 

After  all,  what  difference  could  words  make  between  Theo 
and  her?     The  silence  had  been  speaking  for  years. 

Dolores  said  that  to  herself.  But  she  knevv^  that  the  words 
just  spoken  had  made  an  immense  difference.  Never  again 
could  her  relation  with  Theodore  be  exactly  what  it  had  been 
until  now. 

A  small  sound  made  her  start.  She  turned  sharply  and  lis- 
tened. She  had  shut  the  bedroom  door  behind  her.  The  sound 
had  seemed  to  come  from  there. 

After  a  pause  it  came  again.  And  this  time  she  knew  what 
it  was.     Nero  was  scratching  at  the  door. 


CHAPTER   IV 

That  night  the  Cannynges  were  dining  out  with  some  English 
friends  in  the  Via  Gregoriana,  and  they  did  not  meet  till  the 
carriage  was  at  the  door.  When  Sir  Theodore  came  out  of 
his  dressing-room,  arranging  a  white  silk  handkerchief  round 
his  dark  throat,  and  carrying  a  soft  black  hat,  Dolores  met  him 
as  if  nothing  had  happened  to  disturb  their  usual  relations.  He 
touched  her  shoulder  gently. 

"  What  a  pretty  cloak,  Doloretta !  "  he  said. 

"Do  you  think  so?" 

"  One  of  the  prettiest  )'0u  have  ever  had.  You  should  alway? 
wear  the  deep  colors  that  one  can  look  down  into.  They  seem 
to  carry  on  your  beauty,  to  complete  a  scheme.  Nothing  shal- 
low belongs  to  you.     I  wonder  whom  we  shall  meet  to-night." 

He  helped  her  carefully  into  the  carriage. 

So  the  long  silence  that,  like  a  cloud,  had  lifted  for  a  moment, 
closed  round  them  again. 

Dolores  had  felt  sure  that  it  would  be  so.  Her  husband 
was  essentially  well-bred.  She  had  known,  as  she  thought  over 
their  situation  while  she  was  dressing,  that  when  he  was  alone 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  37 

and  grew  calm,  he  would  consider  his  sudden  outburst  as  a 
lapse  from  his  ideal  of  conduct.  She  had  been  almost  certain 
that  he  would  try  to  atone  for  it. 

As  the  carriage  descended  the  hill  to  the  Piazza  she  was 
thankful  she  had  married  a  subtle  man.  A  blunderer  might 
have  entered  into  apologies  and  explanations.  She  could  not 
have  endured  that.  In  her  present  condition  of  nerves  she 
must  have  unfastened  the  carriage  door  and  jumped  out  had  any 
such  probe  been  inserted  into  her  wound. 

But  though  in  that  moment  Dolores  was  thankful,  as  she 
entered  once  more  into  the  silence,  long  afterwards,  remem.ber- 
ing  that  short  drive  over  the  pavements  of  Rome,  she  thought 
it  v/ould  have  been  far  better  if  she  and  Theo  had  acted  at 
that  crisis  in  their  lives  as  more  vulgar,  and  less  sensitive  people 
would  probably  have  acted,  if  they  had  opened  their  hearts  to 
each  other,  had  said  and  shown  all  that  there  was  to  be  said 
and  shown. 

But  they  had  had  to  act  according  to  their  characters  and 
their  traditions,  she  supposed.  Their  freedom  had  been  as  the 
freedom  of  those  animals  in  the  open  air  menagerie  at  Ham- 
burg, greater  than  that  of  the  creatures  in  the  cage,  but  how 
far  less  than  that  of  the  creatures  in  the  forest.  She  longed 
to  go  away  at  once  from  Rome.  If  she  had  acted  according 
to  impulse  she  Vv'ould  have  tried  to  persuade  her  husband  to  let 
their  apartment,  and  she  would  have  taken  him  traveling  over 
the  world  to  wonderful  lands  he  had  not  yet  seen.  She  would, 
perhaps,  have  played  a  comedy,  such  as  is  easily  played  by  the 
clever,  not  too  scrupulous  woman,  have  pretended  to  break  down 
in  health,  and  persuaded  a  doctor  to  order  her  away.  But  there 
was  a  certain  native  sincerity  in  her  character.  It  added  to 
her  charm  in  the  opinion  of  many  people,  among  whom  was  her 
husband.  But  it  occasionally  fought  against  her  worldly  in- 
terests. She  resigned  herself  to  living  in  Rome,  and  resolved, 
In  that  first  moment  of  bitter  contriving,  to  use  her  woman's 
arts  more  earnestly  to  make  Theo  forget  the  truth  which  he 
had  so  abruptly  proclaimed,  that  their  married  life  was  a  failure 
because  it  had  not  been  blessed  by  children.  Next  day  she  gave 
Nero  away,  and  she  wrote  a  note  to  Lady  Sarah  asking  her  to 
come  and  see  the  apartment  in  the  Palazzo  Barberini. 

But  Lady  Sarah  had  been  called  to  Naples  by  the  illness  of 
a  little  Italian  protegee  there,  whom  she  had  found  abandoned, 
and  on  the  edge  of  the  life  of  the  abyss,  and  whom  she  had  set 
up  In  business  as  a  laundress.     She  wrote  that  sjie  hoped  to  be 


38  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

back  in  Rome  on  the  following  Friday  morning,  and  would 
come  in  the  afternoon  of  that  day.  Dolores,  who  was  in  that 
condition  of  nervous  excitement  which  demands  imperiously 
to  be  fed  with  action,  was  disproportionately  disappointed,  was 
even  absurd  enough  to  feel  almost  angry  with  Lady  Sarah. 
And  now  that  she  knew  the  latter  could  not  come  before  Friday 
she  realized  that  she  had  especially  wanted,  even  needed,  to 
see  her  by  Thursday,  the  day  of  Countess  Boccara's  dinner  at 
the  Grand  Hotel,  However,  there  was  nothing  to  be  done. 
She  wrote  fixing  Friday  afternoon  for  Lady  Sarah's  visit,  and 
then  she  set  actively  to  work  to  get  the  apartment  thoroughly 
arranged  and  in  perfect  order. 

Into  this  business  she  threw  herself  with  an  energy  that  was 
almost  feverish,  and  she  involved  Sir  Theodore  in  it,  too.  That 
was  not  difficult,  for  he  was  a  man  who  really  cared  about 
beauty  in  his  home,  and  understood  how  it  could  be  created. 
And  that  desire  of  the  gentleman  within  him  to  atone  for  his 
lapse  from  his  long  silence  persisted,  and  made  him  very  gentle, 
very  gallant  with  Dolores,  anxious  to  please,  perhaps  to  comfort 
her  in  the  days  that  immediately  followed  that  revelation  of  his 
bitterness. 

She  thought  he  was  really  interested  in  all  they  were  doing, 
and  her  heart  grew  a  little  lighter,  and  she  said  to  herself  that 
perhaps  her  fears  had  been  exaggerated,  her  anxiety,  almost 
terror,  about  the  future  unfounded.  But  there  is  a  sound  in 
a  man's  voice  at  certain  moments  that  cannot  be  misinterpreted 
by  a  woman  —  the  sound  of  his  inmost  heart.  Dolores  had 
heard  it.     She  would  never  be  able  to  forget  it. 

By  Thursday  morning  the  apartment  had  been  transformed 
and  was,  as  Dolores  expressed  it,  "  livable,"  though  there  were 
still  many  last  touches  to  be  added,  and  no  doubt  by  degrees 
Theo  and  she  would  pick  up  many  beautiful  things  to  make  it 
more  attractive.  So  busy  had  they  been  that  Sir  Theodore  had 
apparently  never  found  time  to  notice  the  disappearance  of 
Nero.  At  any  rate  he  had  never  alluded  to  it.  Dolores  thought 
at  first  that  he  was  not  aware  that  the  dog  had  been  got  rid 
of,  then  that  he  knew  it  but  did  not  care  to  speak  of  it,  for  fear 
of  recalling  that  horrible  evening.  But  on  Thursday,  when 
they  felt  that  they  might  rest  from  their  labors,  Sir  Theodore 
said: 

"What's  become  of  the  Egoist,  Doloretta?" 

"The  Egoist?" 

"Nero!" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  39 

"  I've  given  him  away,  to  Etta  Albano,"  she  answered,  look- 
ing down.  "  She  was  longing  to  have  him,  and  the  servants 
didn't  like  him.  They  said  he  was  spoiling  the  furniture  and 
the  curtains.  I  didn't  want  to  have  a  fuss  with  new  servants, 
so  I  thought  it  best  to  get  rid  of  him." 

She  spoke  quite  naturally,  and  her  figure  looked  very  calm 
as  she  stood  near  one  of  the  tall  windows  lit  up  by  the  bright 
sun  of  the  November  morning.  A  tender,  and  yet  a  sad 
look  came  into  her  husband's  bright  eyes,  but  he  only  said : 

"  I  think  you  were  wise,  Doloretta.  Let  us  look  out  for  a 
dog  less  rare  and  less  conscious  of  his  rarity;  shall  we?  " 

"  Oh,  I  don't  know,  Theo.  I  think  perhaps  we'd  better  do 
vv^ithout  a  dog  at  all.  We'll  see  later.  There's  plenty  of  time. 
And  there's  so  much  to  do  in  Rome  that  really  a  dog  might  be 
rather  a  nuisance  here.  You  know  how  tiresome  it  was  about 
Apache  at  the  Grand." 

"  Yes,  but  here  we  are  at  home.     And  I  know  you  love  dogs." 

"  I'm  not  sure  that  I  do.  But  there's  plenty  of  time  to  think 
about  it.  By  the  way,  did  I  tell  you  I've  arranged  to  dine 
with  Madeleine  Boccara  to-night  as  you're  going  to  the  Em- 
bassy." 

Sir  Theodore  slightly  twisted  his  face,  rather  as  he  had  when, 
coming  in  from  the  Denzils,  he  had  seen  Nero  enthroned  before 
the  fire. 

"The  little  Boccara!  Do  you  really  like  her  Dolores?" 

"  Yes.     She  amuses  me,  and  she's  a  kind  little  thing." 

"  I  don't  doubt  it.     Who's  to  be  there?  "' 

*'  She  didn't  tell  me." 

*'  Not  her  husband,  I  imagine,"  said  Sir  Theodore,  with  a 
light  sarcasm. 

"  No,  he  is  not  coming." 

"Poor  Boccara!  He's  a  fool  and  has  never  done  a  stroke 
of  honest  work  in  his  life.     But  I  pity  him." 

"Why?" 

"  Imagine  a  good  honest  normal,  if  stupid,  man  married  to 
a  human  being  that  lives  solely  for  its  diabolical  waist." 

"Its!" 

"  Oh,  I  speak  advisedly.  There's  very  little  of  the  true  she- 
dom  we  men  adore  in  the  waist  w^orshiper,  who  immolates — ■ 
immolates  on  the  unfragrant  altar  erected  to  the  great  god 
Vanity." 

"  What  does  Madeleine  Boccara  immolate?  " 

"  Dolores,  you  know  as  well  as  I  do." 


40  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Dolores  slightly  reddened  and  there  was  a  moment  of  silence. 

"  Boccara's  peccadilloes  are  many,"  Sir  Theodore  said  at 
last.  "  But  if  sins  are  ever  forgiven  I  think  his  will  be.  He 
shouldn't  have  gone  to  France  for  a  wife." 

There  the  conversation  ended. 

In  the  evening,  just  before  Dolores  went  to  dress,  her  hus- 
band said  to  her: 

"  What  do  you  say  to  asking  the  Denzils  in  to  dine  on  Sunday 
night  to  bless  our  roof-tree?  " 

He  spoke  as  if  half  jocosely,  to  cover  —  she  felt  sure  —  a 
note  of  doubt  in  his  deep  and  melodious  voice. 

"  Of  course,"  she  answered  quickly,  "  I  want  them  to  see  all 
we  have  done." 

She  slightly  hesitated.     Then  she  added: 

"  Do  you  want  to  have  them  alone  ?  " 

"  Have  you  any  one  else  In  mind?  " 

"  I  only  thought  we  might  ask  Lady  Sarah  Ides." 

"Old  Lady  Sally?  Of  course!  She's  a  good  sort.  Her 
hat  may  be  in  the  wrong,  but  her  heart's  in  the  right  place. 
iWe'll  ask  her  blessing  too." 

"  Thank  you,  Theo." 

She  went  away  rather  slowly  to  dress. 

Sir  Theodore  had  started  for  the  British  Embassy  some  time 
before  Dolores  was  ready.  His  dinner  was  at  eight.  As  she 
came  into  the  drawing-room  instinctively  she  looked  towards 
the  fire,  and  she  found  herself  missing  Nero.  Now  that  the 
apartment  was  finished,  now  that  she  was  quite  alone  in  it  at 
night,  she  had  time  to  miss  things.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she 
would  have  to  get  another  dog.  The  servant  came  to  say  the 
carriage  was  at  the  door. 

"  I  will  come  in  five  minutes,"  she  said. 

It  was  time  to  go.  Yet  she  lingered.  All  day  long  a  faint 
disinclination  to  go  to  this  dinner  had  beset  her.  With  the 
falling  of  darkness  it  had  grown  stronger.  It  was  no  longer 
faint.  Suppose  she  sent  the  carriage  with  a  note  to  say  she 
felt  ill,  had  a  cold,  a  headache,  and  could  not  come?  Madeleine 
Boccara  would  be  furious.  But  would  that  matter  ver>'  much  ? 
She  went  to  the  writing-table,  sat  down  and  took  up  a  pen. 
Leaning  her  elbow  on  the  table,  and  keeping  the  pen  in  her 
hand,  she  turned  her  little  head  and  looked  again  towards  the 
hearth.  If  only  there  had  been  a  dog  sitting  before  it  she 
would  have  written  that  note,  and  stayed  at  home  to-night. 
But  she  had  not  the  courage  to  remain  quite  alone.     Denzil 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  41 

would  be  dining  at  the  Embassy.  Perhaps  Theo  would  go  back 
to  the  flat  in  the  Via  Venti  Settembre  after  the  dinner  to  smoke 
a  cigar.  Perhaps  he  would  go  softly  into  certain  rooms,  to 
look  at  three  little  sleepers,  to  listen  to  the  soft  and  regular 
breathing  that  stirred  through  the  happy  night  three  little  in- 
nocent bosoms. 

Dolores  dropped  the  pen,  drew  her  cloak  round  her,  and  went 
down  to  the  carriage. 

The  little  Countess  was  waiting  for  her  in  the  white  hall 
surrounded  by  several  people,  nearly  all  of  them  Sicilians  who 
had  come  to  spend  part  of  the  season  in  Rome,  and  who  would 
return  to  Palermo  for  the  late  spring.  Her  figure,  encased 
in  a  white  and  gold  gown  of  some  fragile  material  that  fitted, 
it  seemed,  rather  closer  than  a  skin,  looked  more  astonishing 
than  ever.  As,  taking  tiny  steps,  for  her  skirt  was  tied  closely 
in  behind,  and  appeared  to  be  persistently  embracing  her  high 
little  heels,  she  came  to  meet  Dolores,  all  the  women  in  the  room 
regarded  her  waist,  that  marvelous  waist  to  which  her  existence 
was  dedicated.  Their  faces  showed  concentrated  Interest,  com- 
bined surely  with  reluctant  admiration.  One  of  them,  a  beauti- 
ful dark  woman,  with  heavy  eyes,  which  looked  full  of  sultry 
and  brooding  things,  as  she  gazed,  put  up  her  right  hand  to  her 
own  waist,  and,  drawing  herself  up,  stood  very  erect.  Her 
husband,  a  handsome  Barone,  with  a  keen  and  wandering  eye, 
was  just  coming  into  the  room.  She  had  given  him  a  splendid 
son,  to  bear  his  title  in  due  time,  and  to  carry  on  his  line,  but  — 
he  had  a  keen  and  wandering  eye. 

"  Cara"  said  Countess  Boccara,  holding  the  hand  of  Dolores 
with  gentle  persistence,  and  looking  at  her  face,  her  hair,  her 
jewels,  her  gown,  with  eyes  that  gathered  knowledge  with  the 
fearful  celerity  of  the  Frenchwoman.  "  I  did  not  think  you 
would  come  to-night,  so  now  I  thank  the  Padre  Eterno," 

"  But  why  should  I  not  come?  "  said  Dolores,  feeling  almost 
guilty  as  she  remembered  her  hesitation  at  the  writing-table. 

"  I  do  not  know.     But  I  scarcely  thought  you  would." 

She  let  go  the  hand  of  Dolores. 

"  Are  we  dining  with  all  these  people?  "  Dolores  asked,  look- 
ing towards  the  group  of  Sicilians.     "  I  thought  you  said " 

**  No,  no.  We  are  only  four.  A  man  for  you  and  a  man 
for  me.     Ecco!     Come,  let  us  sit  down." 

"  And  who  are  our  men  ?  "  asked  Dolores,  when  they  were 
ensconced,  she  in  an  armchair.  Countess  Boccara  in  a  hard  chair 
on  which  she  sat  bolt  upright." 


if2  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Mine  is  Montebruno." 

**  Do  you  mean  Marchese  Giorgio  Montebruno  who " 

"  Has  only  one  mistress — the  gaming  table,"  interposed  the 
Countess.     "  Yes,  it  is  he.     Do  you  liice  him?  " 

"I  scarcely  know  him.     And  mine?" 

"Guess!" 

"  I  cannot." 

"  Whom  of  all  the  men  in  Rome  would  you  like  best  to  meet 
to-night?" 

Dolores  slightly  moved  her  slender  shoulders,  and  her  soft 
lips  looked  faintly  arrogant. 

"  Barring  your  beautiful  husband,"  added  the  Countess  with 
malice. 

"  Why  all  this  mystery  about  a  mere  man  ?  "  asked  Dolores 
with  serene  indifiference. 

Countess  Boccara  looked  at  her  in  silence  for  a  minute.  Then 
she  said : 

"  It  is  Cesare  Carelli." 

"Oh." 

The  unmeaning  word  was  absolutely  colorless  as  it  came 
from  the  lips  of  Dolores. 

"  Here  he  is,"  added  the  Countess.  "  And  there  is  Monte- 
bruno in  the  lobby." 

A  strongly  built,  but  graceful  man  of  about  thirty  was  com- 
ing quietly  towards  them,  with  the  complete  ease  and  lack  of 
self-consciousness  characteristic  of  well-bred  Italians.  Neither 
tall  nor  short  he  was  intensely  masculine  in  appearance.  Some 
men  seem  far  more  male  than  others,  as  some  women  seem  far 
more  female  than  other  women.  An  atmosphere  of  sex  sur- 
rounds them.  Cesare  Carelli  was  one  of  these  almost  violently 
male  men.  Yet  he  often  looked  gentle  and  kind,  was  what 
Italians  call  very  "  slmpai'ico''  and  had  not  a  trace  of  "  swag- 
ger "  or  of  conscious  conceit.  His  complexion  was  clear  and 
colorless.  He  had  a  round  white  forehead,  a  splendidly  shaped 
and  small  head,  covered  with  black  and  curly  hair  which, 
though  cut  very  short,  was  so  thick  that  it  looked  almost  un- 
natural, dense  black  eyebrows,  and  a  pair  of  the  shining  and 
intense  black  eyes  which  are  seen  so  often  in  Rome ;  eyes  which 
cannot  look  dull,  cannot  look  inexpressive,  but  which,  perhaps, 
often  seem  to  mean  more  than  they  really  do  mean,  more  of 
passion,  of  melancholy,  of  violence  or  of  reverie.  He  had  a 
rather  large  mouth  closely  shut  when  his  face  was  in  repose, 
with  splendid,  not  small,  teeth,  and  a  firmly  modeled  chin  with 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  43 

a  cleft  down  the  middle.  In  the  shape  of  hh  forehead  and  in 
his  eyes  there  was  something  that  suggested  intellectuality,  yet 
his  face  as  a  whole  was  the  face  of  a  man  of  action,  who  was 
intelligent,  rather  than  of  a  thinker  or  a  student.  He  could 
look  very  gay,  even  impudent,  but  often  looked  calm,  with  in- 
tensity behind  the  calm.  His  figure  was  that  of  a  very  supple 
and  athletic  man,  and  he  wore  clothes  that  had  certainly  been 
cut  in  London. 

As  he  came  up  he  smiled  with  an  air  of  content,  and  mechan- 
ically sm.oothed  his  black  moustache  with  a  strong  and  well- 
shaped  hand,  slightly  browned  by  the  sun. 

He  greeted  the  Countess  in  the  usual  Italian  way,  bending 
and  touching,  or  appearing  to  touch,  her  left  hand  with  his  lips 
as  he  held  it  gently  in  his.  Then  he  turned  to  Dolores  and 
saluted  her  in  the  same  manner. 

"  Ben  tornata/'  he  said,  in  a  soft,  but  strong  tenor  voice. 

"  But  I  have  been  in  Rome  some  time,"  said  Dolores. 

In  excellent  English  he  replied : 

"  I  did  not  know  it.  I  have  been  in  the  country,  at  my 
father's  place  in  Lombardy,  and  at  the  lakes." 

At  this  moment  the  Countess's  ''  man,"  Montebruno,  came 
up. 

He  was  much  older  than  Cesare  Carelli,  and  very  much 
plainer.  Thin,  with  sloping  shoulders,  and  a  tall  and  bony 
frame,  he  had  a  face  that  strongly  resembled  that  of  a  weary 
bloodhound,  with  bloodshot,  strained  eyes,  and  drooping,  puck- 
ered cheeks  and  lips.  His  domed  forehead  was  covered  with 
lines,  which  kept  moving  when  he  talked,  almost  as  if  each  one 
were  endowed  with  a  separate  and  feverish  life  of  its  own.  His 
head  v%-as  partially  bald,  and  he  had  large,  yellowish  white  ears, 
which  always  looked  fatigued  and  pendulous.  He  had  no  hair 
on  his  face.  Despite  his  strange,  and  almiost  repulsive  appear- 
ance he  was  aristocratic  looking  and  dominating.  In  his  ex- 
pression there  was  that  lurking  sadness  peculiar  to  men  who 
are  the  bond  slaves  to  some  vice,  a  sadness  as  of  the  soul  con- 
templating itself  impotently  within  the  dark  shadow  of  its  tem- 
ple, 

Montebruno  was  never  known  to  smile,  but  he  could  make 
others  smile.  He  was  a  true  fatalist,  and  would  follow  his 
star  to  the  dark  or  the  devil. 

Countess  Boccara,  who  would  probably  have  pined  and  died 
if  she  had  not  been  perpetually  en  vue,  had  engaged  a  table  in 
the   middle  of   the   restaurant,   which   could   be   raked   by   the 


44  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

glances  of  every  one.  Here  her  figure  could  be  seen  to  the  very 
best  advantage,  while  she  nibbled  at  a  sole  and  some  pettts  pais, 
sipped  some  Vichy  water,  and  entertained  her  guests,  for  whom 
she  had  taken  care  to  order  a  perfect  little  dinner.  Mcnte- 
bruno  sat  at  her  left  hand,  and  contemplated  her  with  his  yellow 
eyes  which  seldom  changed  In  expression.  He  was  a  great 
friend  of  the  Countess,  and  indeed  of  nearly  every  smart  woman 
in  Rome.  Why  exactly  they  found  him  attractive  no  one  knew. 
He  could  be  amusing,  but  often  was  not.  He  never  entertained, 
being  separated  from  his  wife  and  forever  in  money  difficulties. 
He  had  the  reputation  of  being  inauvaise  langue,  and  was  ex- 
tremely selfish.  Nevertheless  he  had  multitudes  of  friends. 
Possibly  his  gambling  feats,  which  had  a  European  notoriety, 
made  a  halo  around  him.  To-night  he  seemed  dreary.  He  be- 
gan to  eat  his  dinner  with  determination,  but  for  a  time  said 
very  little,  except  when  he  criticized  the  food.  Countess  Boc- 
cara  did  not  appear  at  first  to  notice  his  depression.  She  rattled 
on,  keeping  the  conversation  general;  but  presently  she  devoted 
herself  entirely  to  him.  His  voice  was  thin  and  harsh.  She 
lowered  hers,  and  soon  they  were  talking  earnestly  in  under- 
tones. For  a  moment  she  looked  across  to  Dolores  and  Carelli 
and  said: 

"  He's  explaining  a  S5'stem  to  me.  I'm  going  to  Monte  Carlo 
for  Christmas." 

Then  she  sipped  her  Vichy  water,  cast  a  quick  glance  round 
the  restaurant  to  see  who  was  watching  her,  and  again  devoted 
herself  to  Montebruno. 

Dolores  felt  secretly  ill  at  ease,  but  she  was  too  much  accus- 
tomed to  the  world  to  show  it.  There  was  something  in  Monte- 
bruno which  she  disliked,  though  she  scarcely  knew  what  it  was. 
Possibly  it  was  his  appearance  which  made  her  shrink  from  him. 
When  she  looked  away  from  him  to  Carelli  she  realized  how 
great  is  the  dominion  of  a  woman's  eyes  over  her  mind. 
Carelli's  face  and  figure,  his  strong,  manly  expression  and  com- 
pletely natural  manner,  pleased  nearly  all  women.  His  m.other 
was  English,  and  though  in  appearance  he  was  thoroughly,  even 
strikingly  Italian,  the  Latin  temperament  inherited  from  his 
father  was  modified  to  a  certain  extent  by  the  Anglo-Saxon 
strain  in  his  blood.  Indeed  Princess  Carelli  often  said  that  Ce- 
sare  was  more  English  than  she  was.  A  naturally  indolent  wo- 
man, with  none  of  the  English  sporting  Instincts,  after  her  mar- 
riage she  had  rapidly  become  Italianized.  Her  languor,  her 
graceful  Indifference  had  increased.     She  had  soon  given  up  vis- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  45 

king  England,  and  never  went  further  awaj*  from  Rome,  or  her 
husband's  country  place,  than  Paris.  Even  her  point  of  view 
had  become  almost  completely  Italian.  Upon  moral  questions 
she  had,  or  affected  to  have,  the  Roman  outlook.  And  English 
respectability  and  reserve  —  thought  by  most  Italians  to  be 
either  a  national  hypocrisy,  or  a  funny  mannerism  unsupported 
by  acts  of  abnegation  —  invariably,  if  brought  to  her  notice, 
drew  from  her  some  languidly  cynical  remark.  With  such  a 
mother,  and  with  a  father  completely  Roman,  Cesare's  con- 
science could  hardly  be  English.  And  it  certainly  was  not. 
Yet  now  and  then  he  suggested  the  Englishman.  A  touch  al- 
most of  bluffness  fortified  his  grace.  His  ease  of  manner  was 
tempered  by  a  passing  hauteur.  Or  a  cloud  that  had  surely 
floated  from  the  other  side  of  the  Channel  obscured  for  an  in- 
stant the  shining  fire  of  his  eyes. 

Dolores,  who  had  known  Carelli  in  Rome  during  the  previous 
winter,  having  met  him  out  hunting  and  at  many  parties,  and 
vrho  also  knev/  his  mother,  liked  these  English  suggestions. 
Although  she  had  never  seen  very  much  of  Carelli  she  had  felt 
friendly  towards  him,  had  even  felt  a  curious  confidence  in 
him.  But  towards  the  close  of  the  Roman  season  this  confi- 
dence had  been  disturbed,  this  friendly  feeling  had  been  not 
destroyed  but  slightly  shaken.  For  Carelli  had  come  to  knov/ 
of  Sir  Theodore's  assiduity  In  visiting  the  Denzils,  and  had 
drau-n  from  it  conclusions  wholly  Italian.  And  these  conclu- 
sions had  led  him  to  show  to  Dolores  the  fact  that  she  meant 
something  to  him  that  the  other  women  In  Rome  did  not  mean. 
He  had  said  nothing.  For  the  ordinary  compliments  considered 
by  Italians  to  be  due  to  all  charniing  women  of  course  did 
not  count.  But  —  she  knew.  And  he  had  intended  her  to 
know.  At  first,  though  she  had  been  surprised,  she  had  not 
really  cared  either  way.  She  had  been  too  indifferent,  too  en- 
tirely free  of  all  strong  feeling  for  Carelli  even  to  be  angry  for 
more  than  a  few  minutes.  But  In  the  summer,  during  her  ab- 
sence from  Rome  with  her  husband,  strangely  this  Indifference 
had  been  replaced  by  an  uneasiness,  a  definite  anxiety,  which 
grew  up.  It  seemed,  miraculously  within  her,  like  a  plant  grow- 
ing without  roots.  For  she  heard  nothing  of  Carelli;  had  no 
communication  from  him.  He  might  be  dead  and  she  might  not 
know,  would  not  be  distressed  If  she  did  know.  She  said  that 
to  herself,  and  could  not  account  for  her  change  In  feeling  about 
him.  Sometimes  she  almost  felt  as  If,  with  the  force  of  an 
unusual  strength,  he  flung  influence  upon  her  from  afar.     It 


46  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

was  not  that  now  she  liked  him  better.  All  her  povi'er  of  af- 
fection was  centered  upon  her  husband,  and  she  was  not  the  sort 
of  woman  who  could  ever  have  a  mere  physical  caprice. 

What  troubled  her  was  this.  She  gradually,  in  absence,  be- 
gan mysteriously  to  know  that  Carelli  might  have  a  certain 
effect  upon  her  life.  Whence  this  knowledge  came  she  could 
not  tell,  and,  for  this  reason,  it  infected  her  spirit  with  some- 
thing that  was  almost  akin  to  fear.  When  the  little  Countess 
had  asked  her  to  dinner  she  had  known  at  once  it  was  to  meet 
Carelli.  The  Countess  had  gaiety  instead  of  m.orals,  loved  in- 
trigue, and  quite  light-heartedly  amused  herself  by  what  she 
called  "  causing  crescendos."  She  delighted  in  mischievously 
furthering  a  naughty  love  affair  so  long  as  it  did  not  in  any  way 
interfere  with  herself.  Though  vain  she  had  no  real  tempera- 
ment. That  was  why  poor  Boccara  locked  so  depaysc,  every 
one  said.  And  she  rather  liked  Dolores.  So  she  thought  she 
would  cause  a  crescendo  in  the  lives  of  Dolores  and  Cesare. 
And  now  she  talked  in  an  under-voice  to  Montebruno,  and 
peacefully  hoped  for  the  worst. 

"  Of  course  you  arc  going  to  hunt  again  this  season,''  said 
Cesare.  He  was  looking  bold  and  strong,  and  health  was  en- 
throned In  the  clear  Roman  pallor  of  his  firm  cheeks.  "  Can 
I  help  you  at  all  In  picking  up  j'our  horses?  Why  not  come 
out  with  the  Bracclano  staghounds  as  well  as  the  foxhounds 
this  winter?     Or  are  two  da5's  a  week  enough  for  you?  '' 

"  Too  much,"  said  Dolores,  holding  firm  to  the  abrupt  re- 
solve she  had  come  to  that  dav  at  the  Excelsior. 

"Too  much?" 

Flis  black  eyes  fixed  themselves  upon  her,  but  their  e:;pres- 
sion  did  not  alter. 

"  Yes,  I  am  not  going  to  hunt  this  season." 

Cesare  did  not  look  surprised  or  annoyed.  Without  speak- 
ing he  continued  to  gaze  at  Dolores.  And  she,  as  If  he  had 
put  a  question,  continued: 

"  Moving  Into  our  apartment  has  been  very  expensive.  We 
have  had  to  do  so  much.  So  I  must  practise  econom.y.  And 
hunting  Is  not  economical,  Is  It?  " 

"  Economy  Is  horrid,"  remarked  Cesare,  "  especialh'  in 
Rome." 

"  But  I  have  another  reason,"  said  Dolores,  turning  towards 
him  a  little  more. 

"  I  thought  you  had." 

"  I  don't  think  you  could  guess  what  It  Is." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  47 

'■  I  never  even  try  to  guess  what  are  the  reasons  of  ladies. 
They  are  too  mysterious." 

"  This  winter  I  want  to  know  more  of  the  intellectual  and 
artistic  side  of  Rome.  It  is  all  very  well  for  Romans  to  hunt 
and  play  bridge  and  dance  all  the  time.  They  have  seen  every- 
thing — ■  or  if  they  haven't,  they  don't  want  to.  But  we  for- 
eigners —  it  is  folly  for  us  to  come  to  Rome,  and  to  live  there 
exactly  as  if  we  were  in  Cannes  or  Monte  Carlo,  or  any  other 
gav  place  that  has  a  banal  season.  Rome  must  be  so  wonder- 
ful." 

''  Must  be!     Don't  you  know  its  wonders?  " 

"  Not  really.  But  as  we  are  going  to  settle  down  here  more 
or  less  I  mean  to  know  them." 

*■  Will  you  let  me  help  you?" 

"  I  daresay  you  are  a  very  good  lead  out  hunting,  but  I  don't 
know  whether  you  would  be  a  good  Cicerone.  Besides,  I  have 
one." 

"  Ah,  your  husband,  no  doubt!  " 

"  Oh  no." 

Cesare's  face  slightly  darkened  and  his  eyes  looked  heavy 
and  morose.  But  he  said  nothing,  only  lifted  his  glass  and 
sipped  his  champagne.  Then,  putting  his  glass  down,  he  re- 
marked, with  a  stiffness  that  suggested  England: 

"  Take  care  not  to  catch  cold  in  the  churches  and  museums. 
They  are  dangerous  in  the  winter-time." 

'*  And  the  cold  in  the  Campagna  when  one  is  waiting  about 
for  hounds  to  throw  off?  " 

Suddenly  Carelli's  face  became  animated  and  his  eyes  shone. 

''Ah!     The  Campagna!"  he  said. 

That  was  all ;  but  his  eyes,  his  voice,  the  gesture  he  made, 
told  a  history. 

"  And  you,"  he  added,  "  will  you  give  up  the  Campagna  for 
the  Catacombs,  for  the  Grottos  decorated  with  the  bones  of 
dead  Cappuccini  ?  " 

He  hesitated,  gazing  at  her:  then  just  as  she  was  about  to 
speak,  as  if  moved  by  something  irresistible,  he  added : 

"  But  perhaps  the  Cicerone  of  Rome  is  much  cleverer,  much 
more  entertaining,  than  the  poor  jackasses  who  love  t'ne  winds 
and  the  spaces,  and  the  sound  of  galloping  hoofs  across  the  grass. 
Is  it  so?" 

Dolores  thought  of  Lady  Sarah,  with  her  blue  gauze  and 
her  toque  pushed  awry. 

"  Chi  lo  sa?     You  may  have  met  her." 


48  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"Her!"  said  Cesare. 

There  was  something  almost  childish  in  the  emphasis  he  put 
on  the  word. 

"  Lady  Sarah  Ides." 

"  I  have  never  met  her.  But  what  does  that  matter?  I  feel 
that  she  will  be  a  good  Cicerone,  quite  perfect,  one  to  be 
trusted,  and  followed  to  the  death  or  the  Colosseum." 

"What's  that  about  the  Colosseum?"  interrupted  the  little 
Countess.  "  It  always  interests  me  because  I've  never  seen  it. 
I  only  know  it  by  all  the  potins  one  hears  about  it  from  the 
poor  dears  with  introductions  who  are  passing  through  Rome. 
It  is  in  casa  to  them  every  day." 

She  had  apparently  grasped  Montebruno's  "  system,"  for  she 
now  once  more  made  conversation  general.  Montebruno,  on 
whom  food  and  wine,  extremely  fastidious  though  he  was  about 
both,  never  seemed  to  make  any  effect,  and  who  was  therefore 
quite  as  likely  to  be  amusing  before  dinner  as  he  was  to  be  dull 
after  it,  had  perhaps  received  a  hint  from  the  Countess  that 
she  wished  him  to  exert  himself.  For  he  now  hazarded  several 
shots  at  the  reputations  of  Rome. 

It  seemed  that  he  had  recently  been  in  Paris,  and  had  there 
come  across  more  than  one  pretty  woman  well  known  In  Rome, 
buying  gowns  which  would  not  have  been  supplied  had  not  long 
standing  accounts  been  settled  just  In  the  nick  of  time,  that  is 
to  say,  just  when  the  new  modes  were  coming  in.  The  settling 
of  these  accounts  gave  Montebruno  the  opportunity  for  his  shots. 
For  the  husbands  of  the  pretty  women  had  not  loosened  their 
purse  strings. 

The  little  Countess  entered  eagerly  into  the  discussion  of 
the  subject,  which  was  one  after  her  own  heart.  She  never  had 
any  compunction  In  showing  her  total  lack  of  moral  sense,  and 
equally  complete  lack  of  hypocrisy.  She  believed  that  all  rea- 
sonable human  beings  devoted  their  efforts  to  securing  to  them- 
selves a  good  time,  and  directed  the  shafts  of  her  Gallic  Irony 
against  those  only  who  endeavored  to  conceal  those  efforts  and 
pretend  to  anything  else. 

As  Dolores  listened  to  the  conversation,  in  which  she  and 
Cesare  only  took  enough  part  to  give  the  others  the  necessary 
cues,  she  felt  strangely  Isolated  In  that  deep  love  which  she  bore 
to  her  husband.  Such  a  love  was  surely  more  than  unfashion- 
able in  Rome,  it  u-as  almost  ridiculous.  Were  she  to  fall  in 
love  with  Cesare  Carelli  nearly  all  the  women  she  knew  in  Rome 
would  think  her  admirably  normal,  would  even  feel,  perhaps,  a 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  49 

sort  of  sisterly  sympathy  with  her.  She  would  not  be  isolated 
then.  But,  after  ten  years  of  married  life  at  close  quarters,  to 
be  in  love  with  her  husband !  To  be  secretly  tortured  because 
he  liked  to  visit  and  play  with  another  woman's  children !  Who 
would  sympathize  with  such  nonsense  as  that  ? 

Dolores  had  lived  much  and  intimately  in  what  is  called  the 
great  world,  and  was  accustomed  to  the  modern  habit  of  speak- 
ing frankly  of  all  sorts  of  things  which  used  not  to  be  publicly 
discussed  in  mixed  companies.  She  knew  that  women  whose 
private  lives  v/ere  impeccable  were  often  the  most  startlingly 
outspoken.  Nevertheless  this  civilized  brutality  nearly  always 
grated  upon  her,  because  it  gave  her,  despite  her  knowledge,  a 
stupid  feeling  as  if  almost  every  one  who  was  any  one  was  more 
or  less  a  "  bad  lot."  Secretly  she  was  sensitive  enough  to  feel 
as  if  speech  and  action  were  almost  the  same  thing.  And  she 
was  a  naturally  pure-minded,  though  a  clinging  and  passionate 
woman.  To-night,  suddenly,  while  Countess  Boccara  chattered, 
Montebruno  fired  at  the  human  pigeons  he  carefully  released 
from  his  traps,  and  she  and  Cesare  smiled  and  appeared  to  ap- 
prove, she  felt  as  if  a  cold  wave  flowed  over  her.  She  longed 
to  escape  from  society,  and  the  prospect  of  the  Roman  season 
alm.ost  appalled  her.  Her  inner  emotional  life  rendered  her 
unfit  for  the  life  of  her  world.  She  knew  that,  and  she  felt 
as  if  soon  every  one  must  know  it.  In  his  harsh  thin  voice 
Montebruno  pronounced  a  sarcasm  at  the  expense  of  a  well- 
known  woman,  whose  lover,  faithful  for  many  years,  had  sud- 
denly shown  a  strong  inclination  to  be  freed  from  his  bonds. 

"  She  is  surprised,  not  that  he  has  stayed  so  long,  but  that  he 
wants  to  go  now.  But  she  has  always  been  afflicted  with  an 
insidious  malady." 

"What  malady?"  asked  the  Countess  curiousl)^ 

"  The  heart-paralysis  called  by  some  fidelity." 

"  Do  you  think  fidelity  a  malady?  " 

All  the  lines  in  Montebruno's  high  forehead  were  busily  at 
work. 

"  The  paralyzed  body  cannot  m.ove  from  one  room  to  another. 
The  paralyzed  heart  cannot  move  from  one  love  to  another.  It 
is  condemned  to  one  love  as  the  paralyzed  body  is  condemned 
to  one  room." 

"  Then  surely  it  is  to  be  pitied?"  said  Dolores. 

"  There  is  not  much  room  in  life  for  pity,"  returned  Monte- 
bruno, fixing  his  bloodshot  eyes  upon  her. 

She  shivered. 


50  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Is  there  a  draught  where  you  are  sitting,  cara? "  asked 
Countess  Boccara. 

"  I  think  there  must  be.  But  I  don't  know  where  it  comes 
from,"  she  answered. 

"  Let  us  go  and  sit  in  the  hall.  We  will  have  coffee  and 
smoke  our  cigarettes  there." 

She  got  up. 

When  they  were  in  the  hall  she  said  to  Montebruno: 

"  Do  order  the  coffee,  and  you,  Cesare,  light  your  cigar. 
Lady  Cannynge  and  I  are  going  to  have  five  dreadful  dull  min- 
utes all  by  ourselves,  as  the  women  do  after  dinners  in  England. 
Come,  cara,  to  be  bored." 

She  led  Dolores  away  to  a  little  distance,  and  they  sat  down 
on  a  sofa.     Then  she  said  confidentially: 

"  Did  you  notice  that  Carelli  said  nothing  when  Montebruno 
was  speaking  about  Anna  Marsina  and  Paolo  Cillia?  " 

"  Yes.     He  didn't  seem  much  interested." 

"  Montebruno  is  malicious.  That  is  why  he  told  us  to-night 
about  the  ending  of  that  love.     It  v.-as  all  meant  for  Carelli." 

"What  has  Carelli  to  do  with  it?" 

"  He  has  lately  done  what  Cillia  is  trying  to  do." 

The  Countess's  red-brown  eyes  were  gazing  at  Dolores. 

"  I  don't  understand." 

"  You  know  that  Carelli  is  thirty  years  old  ?  " 

"Is  he?" 

"  Just  over  thirty.  And  he  has  never  married.  The  old 
Princess  found  several  people  for  him  with  excellent  dots,  and 
two  were  quite  passable  looking  into  the  bargain.  But  he  would 
not  marry." 

"Why  should  he?" 

"It  is  usual  in  Italy,  especially  for  an  only  son." 

"  Perhaps  he  was  not  in  love,"  said  Dolores,  with  a  pur- 
poseful vagueness,  glancing  about  the  big  room. 

She  felt  the  Countess's  small,  but  arbitrary  hand  on  her  arm. 

"He  was  in  love.     That  was  wh3%" 

"Really.  How  pretty  Princess  Bartoldi  is!  I  think  Si- 
cilians   " 

"  So  do  I.  Carelli  has  belonged  for  twelve  years,  since  he 
was  eighteen,  to  the  Mancelli.  And  he  has  broken  with  her, 
as  Cillia  wishes  to  break  with  Anna  Marsina.  All  Rome  knows 
it." 

The  Countess's  hand  felt  more  arbitrary  upon  the  arm  of 
Dolores. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  51 

"  What  can  be  the  reason,  caraf     I  am  full  of  curiosity." 

"  I  am  not.  The  complicated  love  affairs  of  Rome  seem  to 
me  very  uninteresting,"  said  Dolores,  with  a  touch  of  genuine 
disgust  in  her  voice.  But  the  Countess  vi^as  not  to  be  put  ofi 
thus. 

"  In  Rome  such  things  do  not  happen  without  some  good 
reason,  as  they  do  In  Paris,"  she  went  on.  "  The  men  here  have 
a  certain  tradition.  Carelli  must  be  deeply  in  love  with  an- 
other woman,  or  he  would  never  have  bothered  to  break  with 
the  Mancelli.  A  Roman  does  not  easily  get  rid  of  a  habit 
which  has  lasted  for  twelve  years." 

"  Very  likely  he  intends  to  marry,"  said  Dolores  carelessly. 

She  longed  almost  fiercely  to  stop  this  conversation.  But 
she  knew  that  any  show  of  feeling  by  her  would  only  rouse 
the  gayest  suspicions  in  the  breast  of  Countess  Boccara.  She 
must  "  play  up  "  to  her  frivolous  friend.  But  how  she  longed 
to  be  natural  at  that  moment! 

"  You  think  it  is  that !  '"  said  the  Countess  quickly. 

"  I  do  not  think  about  it.  I  only  suggest  that  it  may  be 
that." 

"  I  v/onder  if  it  is.  Of  course  j^ou  knew  about  the  Mancelli 
and  Carelli  —  about  their  connection,  I  mean?" 

"  What  does  one  not  know,  by  hearsay,  In  Rome?  " 

"  But  you  have  seen  them  together  out  hunting !  " 

"  Is  that  so  very  strange?  " 

"  The  rupture  happened  in  the  summer,  very  soon  after  you 
left  Rome,  cava." 

Suddenly  Dolores  remembered  the  curious  change  which  had 
taken  place  within  herself ;  the  passing  of  indifference  towards 
Carelli  from  her  mind,  the  mysterious  growth  of  uneasiness, 
of  anxiety  within  her.  This  change  had  taken  place  very  soon 
after  she  had  left  Rome  for  the  summer.  She  had  wondered 
what  could  have  caused  It.  Had  it,  could  It  have  coincided 
with  this  definite,  even  drastic,  change  made  by  Carelli  in  his 
life? 

The  thought  struck  her  almost  like  a  missile. 

''  So  many  things  must  have  happened  after  we  left  Rome," 
she  said,  slightly  raising  her  eyebrows.  This  was  a  little  trick 
of  hers,  and  It  emphasized  the  wistfulness  of  her  face,  "  But 
look!  "  she  added.     "  Princess  Bartoldi  wants  you." 

The  pretty  Sicilian  Princess  was  forming  her  evening  court. 
Countess  Boccara  was  about  to  respond  to  her  eloquent  gesture 
of  Invitation  with  one,  equally  eloquent,  of  regretful  refusal, 


52  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

when  she  happened  to  perceive  a  tall  Englishman,  with  yellow 
moustaches,  and  handsome  gray  eyes  drawing  near  to  the  circle. 

"  Do  you  want  to  join  the  crowd,  cara?  "  she  said.  "  Very 
well  —  for  a  little  while." 

She  beckoned  to  Montebruno  and  Carelli,  who  were  stand- 
ing a  little  way  off  looking  about  the  room. 

As  she  and  Dolores  went  towards  the  Princess  she  whispered : 

"  Perhaps  you  are  right,  cara.  Perhaps  Carelli  is  going  to 
marry.     But  who  can  it  be?  " 

Dolores  shrugged  her  shoulders. 

But  as  she  saw  the  strained  eyes  of  Montebruno  fixed  upon 
her  she  shivered  once  more. 


CHAPTER   V 

Lady  Sarah  Ides^  who  was  as  uncertain  in  regard  to  plans  as 
she  was  certain  in  regard  to  principles,  remained,  of  course 
unexpectedly,  in  Naples  arranging  for  the  future  of  her  pro- 
tegee until  Saturday  evening;  but  she  telegraphed,  in  reply  to  a 
message  from  Dolores,  to  promise  that  she  would  be  in  Rome 
without  fail  for  the  blessing  of  the  roof-tree  on  Sunday  night. 
And  she  duly  appeared  at  the  Barberini  Palace  a  few  minutes 
before  the  Denzils,  wearing  a  quite  well  cut  black  gown,  which 
she  had  somehow  managed  to  put  on  all  wrong.  How  so  sim- 
ple a  gown  could  be  wrongly  put  on,  or  in  what  exactly  the 
wrongness  consisted,  perhaps  even  a  mannequin  could  hardly 
have  explained.  But  the  least  observant  eye  must  have  marked 
the  fact,  and  marked  also  that  the  black  aigrette,  which  Lady 
Sarah  wore  as  a  hair  ornament,  had  been  unerringly  inserted  in 
the  only  place  from  which  It  could  present  a  completely  drunken 
appearance  to  the  social  world.  In  one  hand  Lady  Sarah  car- 
ried a  small  bag.  This  bag  was  merely  a  habit,  like  the  blue 
gauze  and  the  toques.  Exactly  what  it  contained,  besides  a 
pocket-handkerchief,  few  people  knew.  But  every  one  who 
knew  Lady  Sarah  was  aware  that  It  was  generally  overfilled 
with  something.  For  It  frequently  burst  open  at  unexpected 
moments,  as  if  the  closely  packed  contents  were  surCocating,  and 
were  determined  at  all  costs  to  have  air.  And  on  these  occa- 
sions a  handkerchief  always  appeared  on  the  summit  struggling 
towards  freedom. 

When  Lady  Sarah  was  shown  In  Dolores  was  alone  in  the 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  53 

second  drawing-room  standing  before  the  "Donna  guardando  il 
mare."  Italian  servants  seldom  announced  visitors.  Lady 
Sarah  had  time  to  put  her  bag  on  a  table,  the  bag  had  time  to 
burst  open,  and  Lady  Sarah  to  close  it  with  mechanical  deter- 
mination, before  Dolores  looked  around. 

"  Lady  Sarah !  " 

She  came  to  greet  her. 

"  Theo  ought  to  be  here.  But  he  came  in  very  late  to  dress. 
What  a  beautifully  miade  gown !     But     ..." 

With  a  pretty  air  of  gentle  intimacy  she  did  something  to  it 
deftly,  and  added: 

"  I  do  love  your  hair.  Will  you  let  me  put  in  your  aigrette 
where  they  are  worn  in  Paris  now?  " 

"  But,  my  dear  child,  what  does  it  matter  ?  Nobody  looks 
at  me." 

"  Bend  your  head  a  little  more.  There!  See  what  a  differ- 
ence!" She  led  Lady  Sarah  to  a  mirror.  "Now  you  are 
chic!  " 

No  longer  enveloped  in  veils  Lady  Sarah  showed  a  charming 
head,  covered  with  silky  hair,  in  color  amber  mingled  with 
white.  She  wore  it  loosely  arranged,  and  it  made  a  character- 
istic frame  for  her  blunt,  but  attractive  features,  and  large,  kind 
gray  eyes.  She  was  sixty,  but  did  not  suggest  any  special  age, 
for  sorrow  had  not  robbed  her  of  a  very  feminine  buoyancy 
that  was  an  essential  part  of  her.  And  though  she  was  some- 
times vague,  she  generally  moved  in  a  very  personal  atmosphere 
of  kindly  animation,  the  animation  which  springs  from  the 
center  of  the  heart. 

Now  she  put  up  her  hand  towards  her  head. 

"  No,  no.     You  are  not  to  touch  it!  " 

Lady  Sarah  laughed.  Then  in  her  characteristic,  veiled  voice 
she  said : 

"  I  shall  never  be  chic.     I  never  was  as  a  young  woman." 

She  sat  down,  with  a  carelessly  supple  movement,  clasped 
her  hands  round  one  lifted  knee  and  looked  about  the  big  room. 

"You  have  done  it  delightfully  —  just  the  right  red  and 
green." 

Her  eyes  came  to  the  hearth. 

"  That's  a  delicious  frieze.  Those  dear  little  boys  are  thrill- 
ing with  life.  I  can  almost  hear  them  shouting.  But  where 's 
the  wonderful  doggie  ?     Is  he  banished  when  you  have  people  ?  " 

"  I've  got  rid  of  him." 

"  Alreadv?     What  a  short  rcisn." 


54  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Theo  didn't  like  him,  couldn't  bear  him!" 

Dolores  sat  down  by  Lady  Sarah.  With  a  sudden  impetu- 
osity she  took  her  friend's  hand,  and  said  in  a  low  voice  and  hur- 
riedly: 

"  This  is  our  first  real  home  since  we've  been  married.  I 
do  want  Theo  to  like  it.  I  want  him  to  get  to  love  it.  So  I 
mustn't  have  anything  in  it  he  dislikes.  And  such  little  things 
make  all  the  difference.  Nero  just  spoilt  everything  here  for 
Theo.  So  he's  gone  and  I  won't  have  another  dog.  Lady 
Sarah,  you  do  like  me,  don't  you?  " 

Lady  Sarah  impulsively  clasped  the  hand  that  held  hers  with 
both  her  hands. 

"  Then  help  me  to  make  Theo's  life  happy  here  in  Rome  this 
winter.  Help  me  to  make  him  forget  that  his  career's  at  an 
end,  and  he's  out  of  harness.  Do  you  know  that  this  dinner 
is  to  bless  our  roof-tree  ?  Theo  said  so.  Of  course  it's  a  phrase. 
But  you  —  ask  that  it  may  be  blessed !  " 

Abruptly  she  released  her  hand  from  Lady  Sarah's. 

"  Theo !  "  she  said,  getting  up.  "  Lady  Sarah's  been  here 
ten  minutes." 

Her  voice  had  completely  changed.  It  sounded  gently  chaff- 
ing. 

"  Have  you  been  curling  vour  hair,  or  —  what  a  wonderful 
flower!" 

Sir  Theodore  was  coming  towards  the  hearth.  In  his  but- 
ton-hole he  was  wearing  a  small  rose  that  was  extraordinarily 
beautiful.  It  was  no  longer  a  bud,  yet  scarcely  a  full  flower. 
Shyly  it  seemed  to  hover  on  the  threshold  of  lovely  life.  In 
shape  it  was  exquisite,  and  in  color  it  shaded  from  pale  yellow, 
to  a  deep  orange  hue,  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  undernotes 
of  reddish  brown. 

Dolores  put  up  her  hand  as  if  she  were  going  to  touch  it 
gently.     Then,  hesitating,  she  added : 

"  Where  did  you  get  it?  " 

Sir  Theodore  greeted  Lady  Sarah,  turned  towards  his  v/ife 
and  answered,  with  a  tender  ring  in  his  deep  voice: 

"  Little  Theo  gave  it  to  me  '  to  be  grand  with  '  to-night  in 
honor  of  this  important  occasion." 

Dolores  let  her  hand  drop. 

*'  You  know  how  delightfully  fond  children  are  of  an  oc- 
casion, Lady  Sally,"  Sir  Theodore  continued,  standing  by  the 
hearth,  and  looking  down  at  the  little  rose;  "how  they  leap 
at  an  event,  whether  it's  a  Christmas  stocking,  or  only  Daisy 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  55 

or  Dickie  made  new  by  the  mumps!  Little  Theo  Denzil 
leaped  at  this  event,  with  a  flower  for  his  important  godfather 
who  has  got  a  home  and  is  giving  a  feast  in  it." 

And  he  touched  the  flower  which  Dolores  had  not  touched. 

"  I  wonder  where  the  Denzils  are,"  said  Dolores.  "  Theo, 
I  believe  you  have  been  there  and  made  them  late !  " 

She  spoke  lightly,  smiling. 

"  I  did  look  in  to  have  a  game  with  the  children.  They 
were  in  great  spirits  to-night."  He  broke  off  as  the  door  opened. 
"  Here  come  the  father  and  mother!  " 

Mrs.  Denzil  came  in  rather  quickly,  followed  by  her  husband, 
went  up  to  Dolores,  and,  putting  her  face  near  to  the  face  of 
the  person  she  was  speaking  to  —  a  habit  of  hers  which  was 
rather  engaging  —  begged  her  pardon  for  being  late. 

"  I  know,  it  was  Theo's  fault,"  said  Dolores.  "  He  kept 
you  by  playing  with  the  children." 

She  turned  and  shook  hands  with  Denzil,  who  was  looking 
cordial  in  his  stony  way. 

"  Let  us  go  in  at  once,  and  we  will  show  you  all  the  rooms 
afterwards,  if  you  really  care  to  see  them.  Edna,  you  and  I 
must  share  your  husband.  We  didn't  ask  another  man.  We 
wanted  to  be  quite  en  fatnille  to-night." 

"  The  way  she  said  that  won't  be  forgotten  in  Heaven," 
thought  Lady  Sarah,  as  she  pushed  her  aigrette  slightly  out  of 
its  place  and  took  Sir  Theodore's  arm. 

Mrs.  Denzil  was  a  very  happy  woman,  certainly  one  of  the 
happiest  women  in  the  world,  and  simply  and  charmingly  she 
showed  it,  diffusing  about  her  an  atmosphere  of  joy  that  had 
something  of  the  radiant  quality  of  light.  She  was  not  bril- 
liant and  never  tried  to  sparkle  in  words.  But  her  heart 
sparkled  and  drew  people  towards  its  rays.  Denzil,  too,  was 
happy,  and  was  too  strong  and  sincere,  too  completely  him- 
self, ever  to  dream  of  concealing  it.  But  neither  did  he  ever 
obtrude  his  felicit}\  He  and  his  wife  were  remarkably  natural 
people,  and,  being  quite  free  from  foolishness,  never  bored  others 
with  their  blessedness,  and  very  seldom  roused  others  to  active 
envy.  To-night,  being  with  genuine  friends  as  they  both  sup- 
posed, they  were  in  the  mood  for  delightful  hours,  and  the 
dinner  began  with  spirit.  Denzil  was  never  a  voluble  man,  but 
he  had  plenty  in  his  mind,  and,  therefore,  plenty  to  say  to  those 
who  were  congenial  to  him.  Lady  Sarah  was  very  human  and 
responsive.  And  Sir  Theodore  talked  well  and  was  full  of  life, 
even  when  he  chanced  to  be  sad.     In  depression  he  was  never 


56  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

phlegmatic.  The  first  part  of  the  evening  seemed  to  go  gaily. 
The  cook  proved  to  be  a  success,  and  everybody  admired  the 
dining-room.  And  possibly  as  the  evening  began,  so  it  might 
have  ended  but  for  two  reasons,  each  apparently  trifling. 

The  first  of  these  was  the  raising  by  Denzil  of  his  glass  in  a 
toast  to  his  friends'  happiness  in  their  new  home.  He  did  not  of 
course  make  a  speech,  but  at  the  end  of  dinner  when  dessert  was 
brought  round,  he  looked,  or  rather  stared  about  him  with  his 
strangely  expressionless  eyes,  and,  speaking  in  a  slightly  hoarse 
voice,  said : 

"  Dolores  —  Theo,  old  boy  —  we  wish  you  well  here." 

There  was  nothing  in  the  words.  But  Denzil  spoke  with 
such  simple  emphasis,  and  laid  such  an  eloquent  stress  on  the 
penultimate  word,  and  the  gesture  with  vv'hich  he  lifted  his 
glass  was  so  manly,  and  yet  somehow  so  full  of  heart,  that  he 
struck  into  the  hearts  of  his  companions.  Each  one  felt  that 
here  w-as  the  man  who  genuinely  loved  his  friends,  and  with  a 
strong  nature  was  willing  all  good  things  towards  them.  Even 
the  staring  eyes  and  the  slightly  hoarse  voice  aided  the  im- 
pression he  made. 

"  Thank  you,  Francis,"  said  Sir  Theodore. 

Dolores  opened  her  lips,  but  closed  them  without  speaking. 
Lady  Sarah  and  Edna  Denzil  echoed  Denzil's  "  we  wish  you 
well  "  smiling,  and  drank  the  toast. 

And  then  for  the  first  time  during  that  evening  there  was 
a  pause,  a  silence  which  had  in  it  something  frigid.  Sir  Theo- 
dore looked  across  the  table  at  Dolores.  She  was  looking  down. 
She  was  wearing  a  dress  which  was  exactly  the  color  of  cigarette 
smoke  seen  in  bright  sunshine.  Her  long  slight  neck,  her  little 
dark  head,  her  extraordinarily  sensitive  nostrils,  the  great  curl- 
ing lashes  which  showed  against  her  still  girlish  cheeks,  at  that 
moment  seemed  to  her  hushand  to  stand  out  from  their  environ- 
ment tragically.  Often  he  had  thought  that  his  wife  was  wist- 
ful, was  even  mysterious  looking.  Now,  for  the  first  time,  and 
only  for  a  moment,  he  thought  that  there  was  something  ac- 
tually tragic  in  her  beauty,  tragic  even  in  her  softness.  The  im- 
pression he  received  was  so  painful  that  a  wish,  which  was  al- 
most like  a  sword,  that  she  would  glance  up  cut  through  his 
mind.  Instantly  she  did  glance  up,  and  met  his  eyes.  And  he 
found  himself  thinking:  "What  is  she?  What  am  I?  Oh, 
the  curse  —  the  curse  of  my  ignorance,  of  the  unceasing  igno- 
rance of  us  all !  " 

"  Theo,"  Dolores  said.     "  I'm  going  to  sin  against  Roman 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  57 

etiquette.  Stay  and  smoke  with  Francis,  and  we  women  will 
have  a  talk  together.  I  have  been  so  busy  lately  that  I  have 
seen  nothing  of  Edna.  Come  in  when  you  have  had  coffee,  and 
finish  your  cigars  with  us." 

As  she  spoke  she  got  up. 

"  Don't  give  Franzi  one  of  your  big  cigars,  please,"  said 
Mrs.  Denzil  to  Sir  Theodore. 

"Why  not,  Edna?"  said  Denzil  plaintively.  "You  knew 
they  are  the  best  cigars  I  ever  get  in  Rome." 

"  He  smokes  too  much.  It  makes  him  hoarse.  I  should 
like  my  husband  to  be  as  melodious  as  yours,  Dolores." 

"  It  isn't  smoking.  I  have  caught  a  cold,  the  Roman  sun- 
set cold.     I  insist  on  a  big  cigar  on  such  an  occasion." 

"  Give  it  him  then!  "  said  Mrs.  Denzil,  smiling. 

And  she  went  out  after  Lady  Sarah. 

"  Where  is  j'our  new  little  dog,  Dolores?  "  asked  Mrs.  Den- 
zil, repeating  Lady  Sarah's  question  as  the  three  women  cam*. 
into  the  drawing-room,  "  I  haven't  seen  him  yet." 

"  He  was  not  a  success.     I've  given  him  away." 

Mrs.  Denzil  looked  sincerely  surprised. 

"  Vi  will  be  awfully  disappointed,"  she  said. 

She  often  used  little  bits  of  inoffensive  slang  in  her  English 
which  was  spoken  with  a  certain  delicate  precision  that  was 
slightly  foreign. 

"Will  she?     But  why?" 

"  She  heard  there  was  a  live  dog  from  China  here,  and  has 
been  expecting  to  see  a  China  dog,  barking  and  walking.  She 
will  be  quite  crushed  when  she  finds  it  is  not  to  be  seen." 

"  Poor  little  Vi!     Theo  shouldn't  have  told  her." 

"  Oh,  your  husband  can't  keep  anything  from  the  children. 
They  were  longing  to  dine  here  to-night.  He  told  them  j'our 
roof-tree  was  to  be  blessed,  and  they  imagined  extraordinary 
ceremonies.  Iris  was  describing  them  in  bed  to  Marianna  when 
we  came  away.  She  thought  a  roof-tree  was  a  Christmas-tree 
growing  among  the  chimneys,  and  that  we  v/ere  going  to  climb 
ladders  after  dinner  for  the  blessing." 

"  Let  us  look  at  the  roof-tree,"  said  Lady  Sarah.  "  I  love 
to  be  shown  over  houses.  I  want  to  see  everything  you  have 
done,  Dolores." 

"  Very  well.  We  won't  wait  for  the  others.  Do  5fOu  care 
for  this  room,  Edna?  Do  you  think  we  have  m.ade  a  success  of 
it?" 

Mrs.  Denzil  looked  hastily  round. 


58  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  It  seems  to  me  delightful.  I  don't  believe  it  could  be 
better." 

She  continued  to  look  about,  then  added  naively: 

"  But  my  verdict  is  all  bosh,  of  course.  I  have  no  feeling 
for  decoration.  Franzi  says  my  taste  is  that  of  an  Italian  en- 
gineer. You  know  the  modern  Italian  has  a  passion  for  ma- 
chinery and  no  sense  of  art  at  all.  The  only  thing  that  really 
furnishes  a  house  for  me  is  the  people  in  it.  I  am  not  an  artist. 
If  I  am  anything,  I  suppose  I  am  a  humanist." 

Lady  Sarah  had  moved  away  and  was  standing  in  front  of  the 
picture  of  the  villa  by  the  sea. 

''What's  that,  Lady  Sally?"  asked  Mrs.  Denzil. 

She  went  to  stand  by  Lady  Sarah,  and  put  her  face  very  near 
to  the  picture.     Then  she  sighed : 

"Why,  what  is  the  matter?  What  a  gust!"  said  Lady 
Sarah,  almost  as  if  startled,  and  swaying  round  in  her  impulsive 
way  to  look  at  her  companion. 

"'  I  couldn't  live  with  that  picture  in  my  room." 

"Why  not?"  said  Dolores. 

''  The  loneliness  of  that  poor  thing  would  make  me  too  sad. 
She  is  longing  for  a  companion,  and  only  that  black  storm  is 
coming  to  her.  It  is  one  of  the  saddest  pictures  I  ever  saw. 
There  ought  to  be  no  sadness  in  art,  I  think." 

"  Then  isn't  art  to  reflect  life?  "  said  Lady  Sarah. 

She  glanced  at  Dolores  and  regretted  her  question  suddenly. 
Still  gazing  at  the  canvas  Mrs.  Denzil  answered : 

"  I  daresay  I  talk  nonsense.  I  only  mean  that  I  don't  like 
people  deliberately  to  create  sadness.  I  have  been  awfully  for- 
tunate. All  my  life  I  have  been  what  children  call  as  happy 
as  a  king  —  which  means  much  happier  than  a  king.  And 
now  I  am  perfectly  contented.  I  hate  to  think  how  many  poor 
things  are  sad,  and  I  don't  want  their  sadness  to  be  increased 
by  art." 

"  Perhaps  some  of  them  need  the  sorrow  In  art,"  Lady  Sarah 
answered,  in  her  veiled,  rather  pathetic  voice.  "  I  go  nearly 
every  day  to  look  at  the  '  Pieta '  in  St.  Peter's.  Dolores,  won't 
you  show  us  the  rooms  ?  " 

Dolores  replied  by  a  gesture,  and  led  them  on,  showing  them 
all  that  had  been  done,  and  listening  to  their  comments.  But 
when  they  reached  the  door  of  her  and  Sir  Theodore's  bedroom 
she  hesitated.  She  felt  an  almost  invincible  reluctance  to  let 
the  happy  woman  —  the  fruitful  vine  —  cross  its  threshold.  All 
the  evening  she  had  been  secretly  waging  a  combat,  and  now, 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  59 

abruptly,  the  enemy  within  her  seemed  to  gain  in  strength  and 
determination,  to  begin  to  get  the  upper  hand. 

"  Our  bedroom  is  in  there,  and  Theo's  dressing-room,"  she 
said.  "  But  I'm  sure  you've  seen  enough,  Edna.  I  feel  I've 
been  victimizing  you.  You  don't  bother  much  about  all  these 
things  —  the  trappings  —  I  know.  You  —  you  have  so  much 
else  to  fill  up  your  life  with." 

"  But  I  neglect  the  trappings  far  too  much.  I  am  a  Philis- 
tine." 

She  paused,  then  added: 

*'  I  really  am  very  much  interested  in  seeing  everything.  But 
perhaps  you  are  sick  of  showing." 

"No!     No!" 

Dolores  opened  the  bedroom  door. 

"  I  must  examine  this  Madonna,"  Lady  Sarah  exclaimed. 
"  Is  it  a  very  good  copy  of  Luini,  or  what  ?  " 

She  was  bending,  and  showed  no  intention  of  entering  the 
bedroom. 

"  Theo  thinks  it  a  genuine  Luini." 

The  two  women  went  into  the  bedroom  together,  leaving 
Lady  Sarah  in  the  boudoir  which  adjoined.  Directly  they  had 
disappeared  she  ceased  to  be  Interested  in  the  Luini.  Never- 
theless she  did  not  follow  them.  She  picked  up  a  book  with 
a  very  beautiful  Florentine  binding,  and  sank  Into  a  great  soft 
armchair.  Murmuring  voices  came  to  her  for  a  little,  then 
ceased.  Her  friends  had  gone  on  into  the  further  room.  That 
evening  she  felt  clain^oyante,  and,  because  of  her  clairvoyance, 
melancholy.  They  had  met  to  bless  a  roof-tree.  In  Sir  Theo- 
dore's phrase ;  they  had  wished  well,  and  genuinely,  not  formally. 
But  would  their  wishes,  like  the  righteous  man's  prayer,  avail  ? 
Lady  Sarah  had  been  smitten  by  terrible  sorrows.  She  had 
lost  an  adored  husband  after  only  three  years  of  marriage,  and 
both  her  children,  twin  girls,  one  at  the  age  of  twelve,  the  other 
at  the  age  of  seventeen.  These  girls  had  been  lovely  in  appear- 
ance and  in  character,  as  angelic  as  human  beings  can  be,  gay 
and  loving,  serene  in  their  innocence,  yet  thrilling  with  tlie 
spring-tide  of  life.  What  they  had  been  to  their  mother  no  one 
but  herself  could  realize.  What  change  their  withdrawal  be- 
hind the  veil  had  wrought  In  her  existence  she  had  whispered 
sometimes  to  God,  and  to  the  Mother  of  many  sorrows,  but 
never  yet  to  a  living  friend.  She  had  been  made,  not  marred, 
by  her  misery,  and  she  often  felt  as  if  it  had  enormously  In- 
creased her  natural  Intellicence. 


6o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

She  felt  so  to-night,  when  the  voices  of  Dolores  and  of  Edna 
Denzil  died  away. 

She  was  fond  of  Edna  Denzil.  Edna  was  very  near  to  Lady 
Sarah's  ideal  of  what  a  good  woman  should  be.  But  for  Do- 
lores she  had  what  might  be  called  a  faiblesse.  Dolores  fas- 
cinated her.  And  at  any  age  a  temperament  like  Lady  Sarah's 
must  be  subject  to  fascination.  As  a  delicate  mist  half  reveal- 
ing, half  concealing,  a  landscape  charms  the  eyes  of  a  painter, 
Dolores  charmed  this  middle-aged  and  highly  sensitive 
woman.  But  sometimes  she  put  fear  into  Lady  Sarah's  still 
glowing  heart.     To-night  she  did  so. 

When  the  voices  sounded  again  in  the  distance,  as  the  two 
women  were  returning,  Lady  Sarah  got  up,  and  went  alone  to 
the  drawing-room  of  the  sad  picture. 

She  found  the  two  men  just  coming  into  it  from  the  dining- 
room,  still  smoking  their  cigars.  They  looked  as  if  they  had 
been  having  a  good  time  together.  Sir  Theodore's  face  was 
full  of  animation.  Denzil's  was  not.  He  seldom  looked  full 
of  animation.  But  he  had  a  robust  air  as  of  a  man  in  strong 
health,  not  In  the  least  bucolic,  clever,  self-controlled,  and  stirred 
by  the  current  of  a  serenely  flowing  happiness.  He  was  a  quiet 
man,  not  mercurial  like  his  friend.  Now,  as  he  came  In  he 
was  smiling  and  brought  with  him  an  atmosphere  of  genuine 
cordiality  and  contentment. 

"All  alone,  Lady  Sally?"  he  said. 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

"  Why  have  they  deserted  you?  " 

"  They  are  just  coming.  I  like  wandering  about  beautiful 
rooms  by  myself.  And  Dolores  is  showing  your  wife  every- 
thing. I  can't  help  fastening  on  the  special  thing  that  appeals 
to  me  and  giving  It  too  much  time.  That  Is  why  I  generally 
sight-see  alone.     Here  they  are!  " 

The  door  had  opened,  but  Instead  of  Dolores  and  Mrs.  Denzil 
the  maestro  di  casa  appeared  showing  In  Cesare  Carelll. 

For  a  moment  Sir  Theodore  looked  surprised,  but  he  did  not 
show  surprise  in  his  manner  to  this  unexpected  guest.  He 
shook  Carelll  by  the  hand  cordially  and  said: 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  come  and  see  us  in  our  new  abode. 
Do  you  know  Lady  Sarah  Ides  ?  " 

Carelll  did  not,  and  bowed  to  Lady  Sarah. 

"  My  friend  Denzil  you  know." 

"  Oh  yes." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  6i 

"  My  wife  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  She's  showing  Mrs. 
Denzil  the  rooms.     Have  a  cigar." 

Carelli  accepted  one. 

"  I  heard  you  were  to  be  in  casa  to-night,"  he  remarked,  *'  and 
was  very  glad  to  know  it,  so  that  I  might  be  one  of  the  first  to 
wish  5'ou  a  long  and  happy  life  in  Rome." 

He  spoke  almost  like  a  man  wishing  you  a  delightful  visit  to 
his  own  house,  with  a  touch  of  proud  proprietorship. 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Sir  Theodore.  "  Of  all  cities  that  I 
have  seen  I  feel  most  at  home  here.  I  always  think  of  Rome 
as  a  glorious  and  beautiful  village.  But  you  must  understand 
when  I  say  that  I  mean  because  of  its  intimate  charm,  which  no 
other  town  possesses." 

"  I  like  to  hear  that,"  said  Carelli,  as  if  a  splendidly  kind 
and  sincere  personality  had  been  addressed  to  himself.  "  A 
Roman  likes  to  hear  such  sayings  as  that.  There  are  some  who 
come  here  and  only  see  faults,  that  our  roads  are  uneven,  per- 
haps, or  that  we  sometimes  overload  the  mules.  You  are  differ- 
ent.    Thank  you." 

His  pride  in  his  city  was  charming  in  its  bold  simplicity. 
Denzil  stared  at  him  fixedly,  and  said  slowly: 

"  I  mustn't  dare  to  speak  of  the  Via  Nomentana,  eh?  " 

By  his  intonation  an  obsen'ant  person  could  have  learnt  that 
he  liked  Carelli.  Most  men  did  like  him.  He  was  certainly  a 
popular  man  in  Rome. 

"That!"  exclaimed  Carelli,  "it  is  a  quarry,  one  great 
bunker  —  to  use  a  simile  of  Acqua  Santa!  It  is  a  shame  to 
Rome.  Oh,  we  have  much  to  do  here  yet.  But  we  shall  do  it. 
Give  us  time.  We  are  a  young  nation,  remember,  in  our  vii- 
lage." 

"  If  Rome  were  all  quarry  and  bunker  I  should  like  to  be 
driven  off  into  it  and  left  there,"  exclaimed  Lady  Sarah. 

Suddenly  Carelli  felt  quite  interested  in  "  la  vecchiay  He 
made  a  movement,  as  if  to  sit  down  beside  her,  when  Edna 
Denzil  came  into  the  room  with  Dolores  close  behind. 

Dolores  was  startled  by  the  sight  of  Carelli.  For  a  moment 
she  forgot  that  it  is  a  common  practice  in  Rome  to  pay  calls 
in  the  evening,  and  she  thought  that  he  had  come  for  some 
special  reason,  to  make  some  announcement,  give  some  excep- 
tional piece  of  news.  A  moment  later  she  knew  that  her  sup- 
position had  been  quite  absurd,  and  v/ondcred  how  it  could  have 
come  into  her  mind.     She  had  just  passed  through  a  few  min- 


.62  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

utes  of  mental  misery  such  as  only  women  can  understand  and 
suffer.  While  she  had  been  showing  Edna  Denzil  her  beautiful 
bedroom  and  the  room  beyond  it,  quietly  discussing  their  ar- 
rangement, drawing  attention  to  the  green  damask  bed  cover- 
ings, to  the  curtains  which  had  come  from  a  palace  in  Siena, 
to  a  wonderful  crucifix  of  ivory  and  lapis  lazuli,  which  Sir 
Theodore  had  bought  from  a  rascally  Greek  priest  in  Jeru- 
salem who  had  had  no  business  to  possess  it,  she  had  been  look- 
ing at  her  life,  and  had  seen  it  like  a  thing  that  stands  out  ter- 
ribly, more  than  distinctly,  with  unnatural  fierceness,  and  then 
shrivels  in  a  fire.  The  words  she  uttered  had  seemed  to  scar 
her  lips  with  their  bitter  nullity.  She  believed  that  she  had 
shown  nothing  of  her  pain  to  Edna  Denzil,  and  the  effort  to 
conceal  had  made  her  feel  almost  hysterical.  For  a  moment 
the  unexpected  sight  of  Carelli  threw  her  off  her  guard,  and 
conquered  in  her  the  long  habit  .of  outward  self-control  acquired 
by  contact  with  the  world.  She  stopped  for  an  instant,  and  her 
expressive  face  was  marked  by  a  look  of  almost  alarmed  inquirj'. 
Then  she  came  forward  and  greeted  Carelli  with  her  usual 
ease  of  manner,  while  Denzil  began  talking  to  Lady  Sarah,  and 
Sir  Theodore  and  Mrs.  Denzil  sat  down  on  a  sofa  at  a  little 
distance. 

Carelli  had  seen  Dolores'  astonishment  and  for  the  first  time 
wondered  whether  the  Cannynges  had  meant  to  receive  that 
evening.  But  the  Denzils  were  here,  and  "  la  vecch'm."  Surely 
it  was  all  right?  Still  he  felt  slightly  doubtful,  and  almost  im- 
mediately, he  said  to  Dolores: 

"  I  was  told  you  were  in  casa  to-night.     Was  it  true?  " 

Dolores  smiled. 

"  But  you  can  see  for  yourself!     We  are  here,  with  friends." 

"  But,  forgive  me,  perhaps  they  have  dined  with  you?  " 
'     "  Yes." 

"  Were  you  expecting  people  to  drop  in  after  dinner  to- 
night?" 

"  But  why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  I  see.     You  were  not." 

He  did  not  look  troubled  or  ill  at  ease,  but  he  added: 

"  I  really  ought  to  go.     I  had  no  idea." 

"  Theodore  and  I  are  delighted  to  welcome  you." 

"  But  I  must  explain  my  mistake." 

He  leaned  forward,  crossing  one  leg  over  the  other,  and  rest- 
ing one  arm  on  his  knee. 

"  Countess  Boccara  told  me  to-day  that  you  were  at  home  this 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  63 

evening  and  that  she  meant  to  drop  in.  She  even  gave  me  a 
rendezvous  here." 

"  She  probably  mistook  something  I  said.  No  doubt  she  will 
turn  up  presently." 

But  the  little  Countess  never  came,  and  Dolores  did  not 
really  expect  her. 

A  sense  of  relief  had  come  to  Dolores.  She  had  been  seized 
almost  with  fear  at  the  unexpected  sight  of  Carelli.  The  ex- 
planation he  had  just  given  showed  her  how  absurd  she  had  been, 
what  an  unreasonable  mental  condition  she  had  allowed  herself 
to  fall  into.     And  in  relief  she  felt  unusually  cordial. 

"  I  hope  we  shall  see  you  here  very  often.  Large  rooms  like 
these  are  made  for  entertaining,  and  we  mean  to  receive  a  good 
deal." 

She  went  on  quickly  to  develop  to  Carelli  a  scheme  for  creat- 
ing a  salon  in  Rome.  For  since  she  had  shown  Edna  Denzil 
the  rooms  her  floating  and  vague  thoughts  of  making  Theo's 
life  interesting  had  concentrated  themselves,  formed  themselves 
into  that.  Carelli  listened  with  his  black  eyes  fixed  upon  her. 
Italians  often  stare  without  any  intention  of  being  rude.  Do- 
lores spoke  of  clever  and  intellectual  men,  of  archaeologists, 
writers,  painters,  musicians,  even  of  actors. 

"  You  are  going  to  have  them  here  at  parties?  "  said  Carelli. 

"  I  wish  to." 

"  With  the  Boccaras,  the  Monteverdis,  Princess  Merula,  the 
diplomatic  set?  " 

"Why  not?" 

She  spoke  almost  defiantly.  Had  not  Edna  Denzil  said  that 
evening  that  only  people  furnished  rooms?  Suddenly,  divining 
opposition,  Dolores  felt  as  if  she  cared  for  her  scheme,  as  if  it 
were  something  of  great  moment  in  her  life. 

"  That  may  be  all  very  well  in  London,  but  it  would  never 
do  here  in  our  Rome,"  said  Carelli  with  conviction. 

"  How  can  you  tell?" 

*'  It  has  been  tried.     An  ambassadress  tried  it." 

He  mentioned  a  name  once  very  well  known  in  Rome. 

"  Mamma  has  often  described  to  me  what  a  terrible  failure 
it  was.  At  first  the  archaeologists,  writers,  musicians  —  actors 
there  were  none — 'were  very  pleased,  and  the  princesses  were 
very  much  surprised  and  rather  frightened.  Some  of  them  even 
came  in  high  dresses!  Then  the  archaeologists  and  company 
tried  to  be  frivolous  and  the  princesses  to  be  profound.  This 
—  mamma  said  —  made  the  archaeologists  quite  hysterical  and 


64  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

the  princesses  became  bored.  Finally  the  archaeologists  were 
red  and  angry,  and  the  princesses  —  well,  simply  there  were 
none,  not  even  in  high  dresses!  So  it  ended!  And  the  am- 
bassadress took  to  charity  —  and  parrots." 

"  I  shall  never  take  to  parrots !  " 

"  Then  }'0u  will  take  to  hunting  again,  and  that  will  be  ever 
so  much  better." 

He  glanced  across  the  room  to  the  sofa  where  Sir  Theodore 
was  sitting  with  Mrs.  DenziL  At  that  moment  both  of  them 
were  looking  very  animated.  Mrs.  Denzil  was  telling  Sir 
Theodore  an  escapade  of  her  children.  He  was  listening  and 
sometimes  breaking  in.  And  he  had  that  unmistakable  expres- 
sion of  a  man  whose  attention  is  completely  grasped  by  the  mat- 
ter in  hand.  Carelli  believed  that  Sir  Theodore  was  in  love 
with  Mrs.  Denzil,  and  was  probably,  indeed  almost  certainly, 
her  lover.  This  was  a  perfectly  natural  conclusion  for  an  Ital- 
ian to  draw  from  Sir  Theodore's  great  intimacy  with  the  Den- 
zils  and  incessant  visits  to  their  house.  It  did  not  arise  because 
Carelli's  mind  was  nasty  but  merely  because  it  was  Italian. 
Why  should  a  married  man  go  perpetually  to  a  Hat  Inhabited 
by  a  still  young  and  charming  woman  If  he  Is  not  In  love  with 
her?  It  would  be  waste  of  time.  Denzil's  attitude  did  not 
trouble  Carelli.  He  did  not  bother  about  It.  He  knew 
how  strangely  blind  or  accommodating  Roman  husbands  some- 
times were,  and  he  had  paid  occasional  visits  to  London,  and 
stayed  in  English  country  houses  during  the  shooting  season. 
There  were  husbands  —  and  husbands,  in  England  as  well  as 
In  Italy. 

Now  his  eyes  turned  from  the  couple  on  the  sofa  to  the  face 
of  Dolores,  and  she  read  his  thought  In  his  eyes. 

He  did  not  understand  the  truth  at  all.  Her  confidence  In 
her  intuition  was  in  no  wise  affected  by  his  misreading  of  the 
situation,  a  misreading  so  characteristic  of  a  man.  But  she 
longed  to  put  him  right.  And  the  strength  of  her  longing 
startled  her.  Why  should  she  care  what  Carelli  thought? 
The  sense  of  anxiety,  almost  of  fear,  which  had  assailed  her  so 
mysteriously  In  the  summer  came  upon  her  again.  An  influ- 
ence touched  her,  like  a  finger  laid  upon  her  In  the  dark.  And 
something  wltliln  her  recoiled.  And  something  within  her 
waited,  motionless. 

"  I  am  not  going  to  hunt.  I  am  tired  of  hunting.  If  I 
cannot  have  a  salon,  at  least  I  can  get  to  know  Interesting  people 
and  have  them  here.     They  must  come  alone  If  the  uninterest- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  65 

ing  people  are  afraid  to  meet  them.  But,  in  spite  of  the  am- 
bassadress, I  mean  to  try  to  mix  them." 

Out  of  her  uneasiness  she  spoke  almost  with  crossness. 

"  And  you  will  ask  me?  "  said  Carelli, 

"  You !  Why  not  ?  I  shall  invite  nearly  every  one  I  know. 
These  rooms  are  large." 

"  And  we  are  to  furnish  them  for  you?  " 

His  quiet  voice,  in  which  there  seemed  to  be  a  smile,  made 
Dolores  realize  that  her  nerves  were  playing  serious  tricks  with 
her  to-night,  and  that  she  must  not  give  way  to  them.  She 
knew  she  had  been  almost  impolite.  It  was  that  thought  of 
Carelli's,  that  stupid  belief  of  his  about  the  two  people  on  the 
sofa  opposite,  which  liad  driven  her  into  irritation.  But  now 
that  she  recognized  that  fact  she  would  not  be  betrayed  by  it 
again. 

"  My  friend,  Mrs.  Denzil,  says  it  is  only  people  who  fur- 
nish rooms,"  she  remarked. 

And  she  tried  to  throw  cordiality  into  her  voice  as  she  said 
the  word  "  friend." 

Carelli  stared  at  Edna  Denzil,  who,  yielding  to  her  habit, 
was  putting  her  face  near  to  Sir  Theodore's  while  she  talked 
to  him.  He  had  little  doubt  that  Sir  Theodore  had  imposed 
Mrs.  Denzil's  company  on  his  hostess  that  night,  and  he  consid- 
ered that  Sir  Theodore  was  quite  within  his  rights  in  doing  so. 
And  Lady  Cannynge  was  trying  to  carry  the  matter  oft  with  a 
high  hand  and  to  throw  dust  in  his  eyes.  How  could  she  feel 
that  Mrs.  Denzil  was  her  friend?  But  she  had  to  make  the 
best  of  things,  as  so  many  wives  have  to  in  Rome  and  elsewhere. 
Despite  his  strong  feeling  for  Dolores  he  did  not  pity  her  very 
much  because  of  the  fate  he  supposed  to  be  hers.  The  Roman 
tradition  was  against  such  pity,  especially  such  pity  in  a  man. 
And  Carelli  was  really  Roman  at  heart,  not  English.  He  was 
confronted,  as  he  believed,  by  the  very  ordinary  situation  of  an 
unfaithful  husband  bringing  the  other  woman  to  his  wife's 
house.  If  she  was  a  woman  of  society,  not  discarded  by 
her  husband,  that  was  nothing  out  of  the  way.  It  was  done 
every  day,  not  only  in  Rome  but  in  many  other  cities.  But 
though  Carelli  did  not  specially  pity  Dolores,  he  was  beginning 
to  love  her,  more  than  he  had  ever  yet  loved.  And  that  fact 
made  the  supposed  situation  of  very  vital  consequence  to 
him. 

"  Interesting  people?"  he  said,  looking  from  Mrs.  Denzil  to 
Sir  Theodore. 


66  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

**  People  one  likes,  whether  they  are  interesting  or  not,  I 
suppose." 

"  Could  you  like  some  one  who  was  uninteresting?  " 

"Why  not?  I  don't  think  one's  heart  is  always,  or  perhaps 
even  generally,  led  by  one's  brain." 

"  It  is  difficult  for  a  man  to  know  by  what  a  woman's  heart 
is  led." 

"  Besides,"  said  Dolores,  ignoring  this  remark,  "  the  mere 
fact  of  your  caring  for  some  one  makes  him,  or  her,  interesting 
to  you.  Everybody  is  interesting  to  somebody,  but  everybody 
is  not  interesting  to  a  company." 

"  To  your  salon !  "  he  rejoined,  smiling  and  showing  his 
large  even  white  teeth.  "  Do  tell  me,  when  you  open  your 
salon,  if  I  am  permitted  to  come,  in  which  set  will  you  place 
me?  Shall  I  be  expected  by  you  to  be  interesting  or  only  inter- 
ested?" 

He  leaned  forward.  Though  he  was  still  smiling,  his  large 
eyes  looked  almost  seriously  inquiring,  as  if  he  really  wished  to 
know.  And  as  he  asked  his  question  Dolores  asked  a  question 
of  herself.     Did  she  think  Cesare  Carelli  an  interesting  man? 

"You  must  be  both,"  she  replied,  also  smiling;  and  still  ask- 
ing that  question  of  herself.  "  The  linking  of  the  two  powers 
makes  the  perfect  man,  socially  speaking." 

And  then  she  drew  Lady  Sarah  and  Denzil  into  the  conver- 
sation. Mrs.  Denzil  and  Sir  Theodore  also  came  nearer  and 
joined  in.  And  for  the  last  quarter  of  an  hour  before  they 
separated  the  conversation  was  general. 

Nevertheless  it  was  not  really  gay.  Nor  did  it  flow  quite 
easily.  And  the  second  reason  why  this  evening  of  the  blessing 
of  the  roof-tree  was  not  quite  a  success  was  supplied  by  the  un- 
expected presence  of  Carelli. 

He  infected  Dolores  with  anxiety,  and  with  something  else, 
irritation,  caused  by  his  misreading  of  her  situation  which  she 
divined.  And  what  a  hostess  feels  her  guests,  if  they  are  few, 
however  faintly,  however  ignorantly,  echo. 

That  festival  of  the  blessing  ended  with  two  conversations. 
One  was  in  the  red  and  green  drawing-room  between  Sir  Theo- 
dore and  Dolores,  the  other  in  the  hired  coupe  in  which  the 
Denzils  were  returning  home  to  the  Via-Venti  Settembre. 

When  their  guests  were  gone  Sir  Theodore  stood  by  the 
fire  and  stretched  himself  a  little,  as  tall  men  often  do  when 
they  are  relieved  of  some  social  burden. 

"  A    pleasant    evening  —  in    patches,    Doloretta,"    he    said. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  67 

"  But,  alas !  only  in  patches.  Was  it  Lady  Sally,  or  was  it 
some  fault  of  mine,  do  you  think?  or  was  it  Carelli  coming 
in?  The  Denzils  I  put  out  of  this  court  of  inquiry.  I  think 
probably  they  were  unconscious  that  all  was  not  going  like 
a  marriage  bell." 

His  wife  lifted  her  ej/ebrows. 

"  You  don't  think  it  went  oi¥  well  ?  " 

"  Yes,  but  as  I  say  —  in  patches.  Now  you  and  I  ought  to 
manage  things  better  than  that  with  our  experience  and  savoir 
faire.  Yet  Lady  Sally  can't  be  responsible.  She's  a  brick, 
and  a  charming  and  intelligent  brick  into  the  bargain." 

He  pulled  his  pointed  beard  gently. 

"  I  suppose  it  must  have  been  Carelli.  By  the  way,  who 
on  earth  could  have  told  him  the  lie  that  we  were  in  casa 
to-night?" 

"  Rome  is  full  of  nonsensical  rumors." 

"  If  he  stuck  to  his  supposition  he  must  have  thought  our 
friends  were  somewhat  reluctant  in  their  coming." 

He  moved  his  lips  two  or  three  times  sideways,  causing 
his  beard  to  shift  in  a  way  that  suggested  an  alert  restlessness 
and  dissatisfaction. 

"  But  who  cares  what  he,  or  any  one  of  those  outside, 
thinks?" 

"What  do  you  mean  by  'those  outside,'  Theo?" 

"  All  the  crowd  of  Carellis  outside  our  hearts  and  our  lives, 
Doloretta;  those  who  are  never  coming  in,  the  countless 
multitudes  who  will  never  matter.  Let  us  go,  you  to  your 
beauty  sleep,  I  to  a  Russian  novel,  and  forget  our  patchy 
evening," 

Dolores  did  not  speak  or  move.  She  was  looking  into  the 
fire. 

"Doloretta!" 

"Yes,  yes!"  she  said,  turning,  "let  us  forget  our  patchy 
evening." 

"  And  I  will  put  this  little  rose  into  water.  It  is  too  lovely 
to  be  allowed  to  fade  before  its  time." 

He  drew  little  Theo's  gift  carefully  out  of  his  coat. 

Meanwhile  the  Denzils'  coupe  was  slowly  mounting  the  hill 
to  the  Via  Venti  Settembre.  It  was  a  narrow  coupe,  and, 
as  they  sat  in  it,  they  touched  each  other. 

"  They're  very  cozily  settled,  old  Theo  and  Dolores,  aren't 
they,  Ed  ?  "  said  Denzil. 

He  cleared  his  throat. 


68  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  The  cigar  doesn't  seem  to  have  done  my  cold  much  good. 
I  believe  you  were  right." 

"  You  really  do  smoke  rather  too  much,  Franzi." 

Denzil  took  hold  of  his  v^^ife's  hand,  as  if  he  were  taking 
hold  of  his  own. 

"  I'll  knock  off  one  or  two  a  day." 

"  I  believe  you  ought  to.  Yes,  they  are  cozily  settled,  and 
it's  a  lovely  apartment.     But  I  don't  want  to  be  in  it." 

"  No  more  do  I.  And  yet  it  would  really  suit  us  better 
than  it  suits  them,  because  we  are  five  to  their  two.  Poor 
old  Theo!  It  is  hard  on  him  never  having  had  a  child.  I 
don't  know  that  Dolores  minds." 

"  If  she  did  she  would  never  say  so." 

"  She's  so  fond  of  all  sorts  of  things  —  dogs  and  horses,  art, 
music,  furniture,  I  doubt  if  she's  one  of  the  women  who  need 
children." 

Mrs.  Denzil  thought  she  knew  better,  but  she  did  not  think 
it  necessary  to  say  so.  And  she  had  something  else  that  she 
wanted  to  say  to  her  other  half,  who  held  her  hand  as  if  it 
were  his  own. 

"  Franzi,  do  you  think  Dolores  really  likes  me?  " 

"  Likes  you !  Of  course  she  does.  Why,  what  greater 
friends  have  we  in  the  world  than  Theo  and  Dolores?  I 
was  Theo's  best  man." 

"  Yes,  but  I  wasn't.     And  Sir  Theodore  isn't  Dolores." 

"  What  can  possibly  have  put  it  into  3^our  head  that 
Dolores  dislikes  you  ?  " 

"  I  didn't  say  that.  I  don't  believe  I  am  the  sort  of  woman 
to  rouse  active  personal  dislike  in  a  woman  so  naturally  sweet- 
natured  as  Dolores.     But  to-night " 

"Well,  what  was  it?" 

"  Dolores  was  showing  me  over  the  apartment.  When  we 
came  to  her  bedroom,  which  is  really  quite  lovely,  a  show 
bedroom,  the  sort  you  and  I  could  never  endure,  I  don't  be- 
lieve she  wished  to  let  me  into  it.     I  know  she  didn't." 

"Did  you  go  into  it?" 

"  Yes." 

"Well  then?" 

"  I  didn't  wish  to  show  that  I  thought  she  wanted  to  keep 
me  out.  And  she  didn't  wish  to  show  that  was  what  she 
wanted." 

"Merciful  Heavens!     What  subtleties!     What  hedging!" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  69 

"  That  is  how  women  are,  Franzi.  So  she  asked  me  to  go 
in  and  I  went  in." 

"And  then  what  happened,  you  number  one  absurdity?" 

*'  She  showed  me  everything.  But  how  she  hated  my  being 
there!" 

"  Wasn't  Lady  Sally  there  too?  " 

"  No,  she  was  looking  at  a  picture  outside.  You  know, 
Franzi,  there  are  some  women  who  hate  to  sleep  in  a  room 
with  another  woman,  however  intimate  a  friend  she  may  be. 
When  she  was  showing  me  the  bedroom  Dolores  was  feeling 
like  one  of  those  women  —  if  she  had  to." 

Denzil  said  nothing  for  a  minute.  He  was  accepting  his 
wife's  intuition  slowly.  His  mind  was  transmuting  that  fragile 
thing,  a  woman's  guess,  into  what  was  to  stand  to  him  as  a 
solid  fact. 

"  I  can't  imagine  anyone  disliking  you,  Ed,"  he  said  at 
length.  "You  never  interfere  with  other  women,  do  you? 
You  like  them,  which  many  of  your  sex  don't,  according  to 
their  own  account.  You  never  go  for  a  man,  because  I  never 
let  you  have  the  chance" — a  hand  squeezed  his — "  and  there- 
fore women  who  are  robbers  feel  safe  with  you.  Besides,  Do- 
lores is  a  sweet  and  gentle  creature,  isn't  she?  I  always 
thought  so.  After  you  I  look  upon  her  as  one  of  the  best 
women  I  know." 

"  Say  before  me,  and  you  wouldn't  be  out  of  the  course." 

"  Take  care  —  slang !  " 

"  That  isn't  slang.     But  all  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it." 

"  Hasn't  it,  mystifier?" 

"  Franzi,  great  happiness  creates  envy,  and  sometimes  in 
very  sweet  women.  I  begin  to  think  that  our  happiness  is 
hurting  Dolores." 

"  I  can't  see  that." 

"  No,  you  old  dear.  But  only  I  know  how  short-sighted 
you  are,  and  that's  why  you  stare  with  those  two  eyes  like  two 
stones,  and  frighten  people." 

"  And  even  if  you  are  right  we  can  do  nothing.  We  can't 
help  being  happy !  " 

"No,  no!  Grazie  —  grazic  a  Dio,  we  can't  help  being 
happy !  " 

They  had  reached  the  top  of  the  hill.  The  rushing  of 
water  in  the  fountain  sounded  in  their  ears.  The  spray  almost 
touched  their  cheeks  through  the  open  window  of  the  carriage. 


70  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

And  the  horse  trotted,  as  if  in  a  hurry  to  reach  the  only  earthly 
Paradise  —  a  happy  home. 


CHAPTER  VI 

A  FORTNIGHT  bcforc  Christmas  Marchesa  VerostI  began  her 
"  Thursdays  " ;  that  is  to  say  she  was  at  home  in  the  Palazzo 
Antei  from  five  to  seven  every  Thursday  afternoon.  The 
Marchesa  w^as  old  but  full  of  vitality,  and  still  eagerly  in- 
terested in  all  that  was  going  on  in  the  world.  Her  three 
daughters  were  all  married.  Her  only  son  had  found  a  for- 
tune with  a  pretty  wife  attached  to  it  in  America.  And  her 
jovial  husband,  who  was  a  senator,  a  sportsman  and  a  viveur, 
at  the  age  of  seventy  was  still  healthy  enough  to  revel  in  the 
follies  of  life. 

Rome  is  full  of  the  faithful,  and  Marchesa  Verosti  still  com- 
manded a  large  following  of  adherents,  drawn  chiefly  from 
the  Quirinal  and  cosmopolitan  worlds.  Her  father  had  been 
a  Roman,  her  mother  an  American  from  the  South.  From 
her  childhood  she  had  spoken  English  fluently,  and  some  of 
the  energy  and  swiftness  of  America,  some  of  its  freedom  from 
the  prejudices  which  still  prevail  in  the  old  lands  of  Europe, 
mingled  with  her  aristocratic  Roman  characteristics,  and  made 
her  an  excellent  hostess.  So  her  Thursdays  were  always  well 
attended  both  by  women  and  men,  and  those  which  fell  before 
Christmas  were  crowded  by  people  eager  to  describe  the  events 
of  the  villeggiatura  and  to  hear  the  prospects  for  the  winter. 

On  her  first  Thursday  the  Marchesa  was  assisted  in  receiv- 
ing by  two  of  her  daughters.  Countess  Bennata  and  Countess 
Elivei,  small,  graceful  young  Avomen,  with  blue-black  hair  and 
likely  dark  eyes.  They  remained  in  the  third  drawing-room, 
where  tea  was  spread  out  on  a  huge  round  table.  The  Mar- 
chesa sat  in  the  room  beyond,  in  the  midst  of  red  damask,  bibe- 
lots and  flowers. 

Like  her  daughters  she  was  small.  Unlike  them  she  was 
wizened,  wrinkled,  yellow  and  shrunken.  Her  shrewd  and 
inquisitive  little  face  was  flushed  with  paint,  which  only  em- 
phasized the  color  of  her  natural  complexion.  Her  eyes 
sparkled  under  tufted  eyebrows,  above  which  rose  a  high  fore- 
head, lightly  dusted  with  powder,  and  surmounted  by  a  festive- 
looking  black  wig,  the  curls  of  which  were  threaded  by  a  scar- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  71 

let  riband  of  watered  silk,  with  a  fat  hanging  pearl  attached 
to  it  exactly  in  the  middle  of  her  head. 

In  Rome  people  arrive  punctually,  and  by  a  quarter  past 
five  the  Marchesa's  rooms  were  thronged.  Most  of  the  smart- 
est and  prettiest  married  women  of  the  Quirinal  set  were  there, 
many  girls  on  the  eve  of  entering  the  world,  and  plenty  of 
men  both  middle-aged  and  young,  among  the  latter  numerous 
diplomats  attached  to  the  various  embassies.  Two  ambassa- 
dors also  looked  in,  and  conversed  amiably  with  the  Marchesa, 
and  seriously  with  three  or  four  Italian  politicians,  who  turned 
up  for  a  short  time,  pretended  to  have  tea,  surveyed  the  debu- 
tantes critically,  spoke  in  corners  —  no  doubt  on  affairs  of 
moment  —  and  melted  mysteriously  away. 

The  general  company  discussed  affairs  important  rather  to 
individuals,  or  to  sections  of  fashionable  humanity  in  Rome, 
than  to  the  country  or  the  world  at  large.  And  three  topics 
seemed  to  be  uppermost  in  minds  and  on  lips ;  a  rupture,  a  new 
hostess  and  what  she  was  likely  to  do  in  the  way  of  entertain- 
ing during  the  coming  season,  and  the  immense  losses  of  a 
gambler.  The  rupture  took  first  place  in  the  conversations 
of  the  smart  married  women.  The  girls  were  able  to  join  in 
when  the  new  hostess  was  on  the  tapis.  And  there  was  scarcely 
a  man  present  who  was  not  thoroughly  interested  in  the  losses 
of  the  gambler.  "  The  Mancelli  "  and  Cesare  Carelli  were 
the  heroine  and  hero  of  the  rupture;  Dolores  was  the  new  hos- 
tess; and  the  unfortunate  gambler  was  Marchese  Montebruno. 

Rome  was  genuinely  disturbed  about  Princess  Mancelli.  In 
Italy  husbands  are  very  faithless,  but  lovers  are  very  faithful. 
Many  a  liaison  becomes  consecrated  by  usage  in  the  eyes  of  a 
world  that  is  not  greatly  troubled  by  questions  of  strict  moral- 
ity, but  which  has  a  decided  feeling  for  romance,  and  a  strong 
sense  of  the  obligations  of  lovers.  Such  a  liaison  had  been  that 
existing  between  Princess  Mancelli  and  Cesare  Carelli.  Yet 
the  Princess  was  now  forty-three  and  Carelli  only  just  thirty, 
and  when  the  affair  had  begun  Carelli  had  been  a  boy  of  but 
eighteen. 

In  those  early  days,  twelve  years  before,  the  Princess  had 
been  severely  blamed,  and,  for  a  short  time,  had  been  in  danger 
of  losing  her  social  prestige.  People  said,  and  thought,  it  was 
a  shame  to  break  up  the  life  of  a  boy  and  impair  his  freedom. 
Many  mothers  were  indignant  on  behalf  of  their  budding 
daughters;  and  Cesare's  parents  were  furious,  and  made  efforts 
to  detach  their  son  from  a  woman  they  chose  to  call  "  old." 


72  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Of  course  the  Prince  was  an  abominable  husband.  Every  one 
knew  that.  He  was  forever  in  Paris,  living  an  "  impossible  " 
life.  From  the  first  he  had  treated  his  wife  atrociously,  and  after 
remaining  with  her  for  a  couple  of  years  had  practically  de- 
serted her.  Nevertheless  she  had  done  very  wrong  in  spoiling 
the  boy's  life,  and  in  keeping  one  of  the  best  partis  in  Rome 
from  matrimony. 

Why  did  Rome  forgive  her?  Because  she  had  great  force 
of  will,  was  a  grande  dame,  an  accomplished  mondaine,  was 
connected  with  several  of  the  very  greatest  families  of  Italy,  and 
knew  how  to  be  determined  with  discretion.  And  she  genu- 
inely adored  Carelli,  and  never  looked  at  any  one  else.  Rome 
loves  romance.  And  the  longer  it  lasts  the  more  Rome  loves  it. 
So,  as  time  passed  on,  Rome  not  only  forgave  Princess  MancelH 
for  her  lapse  from  virtue,  but  actually  came  to  think  of  the 
lapse  itself  as  a  sort  of  virtue  —  on  the  left  hand;  something 
that  must  be  expected  to  continue  indefinitely  and  that  must 
not  be  interfered  with. 

The  Princess  and  Carelli  did  not  advertise  their  connection 
unduly.  The  proprieties  were  scrupulously  observed.  But 
Carelli  generally  happened  to  be  where  the  Princess  was. 
Whenever  she  had  a  party  he  dropped  in.  In  the  hunting  field 
it  was  an  understood  thing  that  he  was  her  lead.  He  was  her 
partner  in  every  cotillon.  And  in  the  summer  when  she  was  in 
Paris,  in  London,  in  Aix,  at  St.  Moritz,  Cadenabbia  or  Varese, 
so  was  he,  though  not  always  in  the  same  hotel. 

But  during  the  summer  just  over  the  Princess  had  gone  to 
Switzerland  alone,  and  Carelli  had  remained  in  Italy  with  his 
family. 

Rome  was  distressed  at  such  a  change  in  the  established  order 
of   things.     It  could   only   mean   a   rupture.     Who   was   the 


woman 


Names  were  whispered.  But  nobody  really  knew.  The 
Marchesa  Verosti  was  among  the  most  anxious  to  arrive  at  the 
truth.  Age  had  not  withered  her  interest  in  the  affairs  of  her 
neighbors,  and  she  eagerly  sought  among  her  many  guests  for 
somebody  who  could  inform  her. 

"  There  is  the  little  Boccaral  She  may  be  able  to  tell  us!  " 
she  suddenly  exclaimed,  as  she  perceived  the  Countess,  in  a 
very  tight  black  velvet  dress,  with  an  immense  plumed  hat, 
coming  with  tiny  steps  into  the  tea-room,  and  giving  her  left 
hand,  in  a  white  kid  glove,  to  man  after  man  to  be  kissed. 

"  How  extraordinary  her  waist  is!  "  said  Mrs.  Melville  Prin- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  73 

gle,  a  large  woman,  half  American,  half  English,  who  was  sit- 
ting with  the  Marchesa.  "  I  remember  her  in  Paris  when  she 
was  sixteen,  and  she  was  one  of  the  fattest  and  awkwardest 
girls  I  ever  saw.     We  always  called  her  the  Lyons  dumpling." 

"Madeleine!"  cried  the  Marchesa,  beckoning  and  nodding 
till  the  fat  pearl  quivered  in  front  of  her  wig. 

In  the  distance  the  Countess  blew  a  kiss  to  her  hostess,  made 
a  piteous  face,  and  held  up  a  tea-cup. 

"  Tea  and  lemon  to  make  her  more  slender!  "  said  the  Mar- 
chesa. 

"  What  I  can't  understand  is  how  all  that  starving  doesn't 
affect  her  face,"  said  Mrs.  Melville  Pringle.  "  I  tried  it,  and 
got  such  a  dragged  look  that  I  had  to  give  it  up  and  eat  like 
other  people." 

"  You  and  I  needn't  bother,  my  dear,"  said  the  Marchesa 
comfortably.  "  AVe  are  long  past  all  that!  Madeleine!  Come 
and  sit  down.  How  nice  to  see  you  again  after  all  these 
months.     You  know  Mrs.  Melville  Pringle?" 

The  Countess  nodded  to  that  lady  with  an  indifference  that 
bordered  on  insolence,  and  sat  down  on  a  straight  chair.  Never 
yet  had  she  been  seen  to  sit  in  an  armchair,  or  to  lie  down  on  a 
sofa. 

"  You've  been  in  Switzerland  this  summer,  haven't  you  ?  " 
continued  the  Marchesa,  earnestly. 

"  I  was  at  Lucerne  before  I  went  to  Aix." 

"Lucerne!  Did  you  see  the  MancelK!  I  heard  she  was 
there." 

"  Lisetta  —  oh  yes,  she  was  at  the  National." 

The  Countess  spoke  carelessly,  and  glanced  about  the  big 
room  to  see  how  many  m.en  were  looking  at  her. 

"  Was  she  alone?  " 

"  She  arrived  alone  and  joined  the  Duke  and  Duchess  de 
Vaudoise,  and  some  others,  all  French,  I  believe." 

"  I  know  the  Duke  and  Duchess  de  Vaudoise,"  observed 
Mrs.  Melville  Pringle  weightily. 

"  Pourquoi  pasf  "  asked  the  Countess,  with  impertinence. 

Mrs.  Melville  Pringle  bored  her,  and  to  those  who  bored 
her  she  was  merciless.  When  she  could  not  cut  them  she 
crushed  them. 

"  Come  here,  Principe,"  she  now  called  to  an  aristocratic 
looking  middle-aged  man,  who  was  moving  cautiously  forward 
not  far  off.  And  she  turned  her  shoulder  to  Mrs.  Melville 
Pringle  who  got  up  with  a  lowering  glance. 


74  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  We  always  called  her  the  Lyons  dumpling  in  Paris,  always. 
She  was  so  huge"  Mrs.  Melville  Pringle  murmured  acridly 
to  the  Marchesa. 

Then  she  moved  haughtily  towards  the  tea-room. 

"  That  woman's  the  greatest  bore  in  Rome,"  exclaimed  the 
Countess  as  Prince  Perreto  came  up  and  kissed  her  hand.  "  I 
never  discuss  things  before  her.  She  repeats  them  to  the  wrong 
people  to  make  an  effect  and  raises  one  up  hosts  of  enemies. 
What's  all  this  about  Montebruno?" 

"  He  has  lost  everything,"  said  the  Prince,  sitting  down  with 
a  sunny  smile. 

"  Ah,  Carlo !  "  cooed  the  Countess,  **  Carlo,  buona  sera!  " 

A  handsome  young  man  with  tiny  black  moustaches  obeyed 
the  coo,  and  sat  down  on  her  other  side. 

"  Well,  but  that's  nothing  new,"  continued  the  Countess, 
"  Montebruno  had  lost  everything  before  I  came  to  Rome.  Be- 
sides he  never  had  anything." 

"  He  had  all  Teresa's  dot,"  observed  the  Marchesa. 

"  Two  million  lire,"  said  Perreto. 

The  young  man's  expressive  eyes  which  till  now  had  been 
soft  and  melting,  suddenly  looked  hard  and  greedy. 

"  That's  nothing  if  one  plays.  I  don't  suppose  it  lasted  Mon- 
tebruno two  seasons,"  said  the  Countess. 

"  Not  nearly  so  long,"  observed  the  Prince,  pressing  his 
hands  together,  then  suddenly  separating  them. 

The  young  man.  Carlo  Vitali,  looked  respectful.  Monte- 
bruno was  greatly  admired  and  looked  up  to  by  the  aristocratic 
youth  of  Rome  on  account  of  his  notorious  vice. 

"Did  he  really  lose  two  millions?"  asked  Vitali,  in  a  soft 
tenor  voice,  as  who  should  say  — "  What  a  man !  " 

"  Before  they'd  been  married  a  year,"  said  the  Prince 
cheerily. 

"  Teresa  always  told  me  it  was  a  year  and  a  half,"  said 
the  Marchesa,  moving  her  tufted  eyebrows  up  and  down. 

"Poveretta!"  said  the  Prince  negligently.  "That  was  to 
defend  Montebruno.  She  loves  him  desperately  to  this  day, 
and  would  never  have  been  separated  if  it  hadn't  been  for  her 
mother." 

"  The  mother's  a  horrid  hard  woman,"  said  the  Countess. 
"  I  can't  bear  her.  She  was  always  so  down  on  Montebruno. 
So  uncharitable!     What's  Montebruno  going  to  do?" 

"  Oh !  he  will  manage,"  said  young  Vitali,  putting  a  monocle 
over  his  left  eye,  and  gazing  at  the  Countess  from  top  to  toe, 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  75 

then  fixing  his  eyes  on  her  waist.  "  Montebruno  is  a  great 
man.     He  can  always  find  money." 

"  They  say  it's  the  Mancelli  this  time,"  said  the  Prince,  with 
a  sh'ght  smirk  and  a  side  glance  at  the  Marchesa. 

"  The  Mancelli!  "  said  the  Marchesa. 

"  Who  has  helped  him  out." 

"But  why  should  she?" 

At  this  moment  quite  a  stream  of  new  arrivals  claimed  the 
attention  of  the  unfortunate  Marchesa,  who  was  forced  to 
bridle  her  curiosity,  and  to  be  amiable  in  frustration. 

"Do  you  really  believe  it?"  murmured  the  Countess. 

"  That's  what  they  say,"  returned  Perreto,  with  a  lively  air. 
"  It  may  be  a  potin." 

"It's  a  very  good  one  at  any  rate.  Ah,  my  dear  boy! 
Where  on  earth  have  you  been  hiding  all  this  time?  Why 
didn't  you  come  to  play  bridge  with  us  at  the  Teodoris  yester- 
day?    Come  and  sit  down  and  explain  yourself!" 

She  added  the  Englishman  with  the  gray  eyes,  who  had 
joined  the  circle  around  Princess  Bartoldi  after  the  little  dinner 
at  the  Grand  Hotel,  to  her  court.  Till  she  had  at  least  six 
men  sitting  round  her  she  was  miserable  and  felt  abandoned 
by  the  world. 

"  I  was  at  the  Cannynges,"  said  the  Englishman,  a  young 
attache  from  the  British  Embassy,  called  Hereward  Arnold. 

With  a  couple  of  nods  to  the  other  men  he  took  a  chair 
exactly  opposite  to  the  Countess,  at  whom  he  gazed  firmly. 

"  Ma  die  bella  donna!  Che  donna  simpatica!  "  exclaimed 
Prince  Perreto,  throwing  up  his  hands  and  making  his  voice 
luscious. 

Hereward  Arnold  turned  and  regarded  him  steadily,  with- 
out expression. 

"Do  you  admire  Dolores  Cannynge?"  the  Countess  asked 
him. 

Although  somewhat  impassive,  Hereward  Arnold  was  no 
fool.     He  raised  his  shoulders. 

"  Does  Lady  Cannynge  set  up  to  be  a  beauty  ?  "  he  said.  "  I 
wasn't  aware  of  it." 

"You  don't  admire  her!"  exclaimed  the  Countess.  "Well, 
I  do.     I  think  her  the  most  beautiful  person  in  Rome." 

"  Contessa  mia!"  protested  young  Vitali.     "And  you!" 

He  again  looked  at  her  waist  and  sighed  gently.  Then  sit- 
ting nearer  to  her,  he  murmured,  with  a  sort  of  hot  and  open 
sentimentality,  which  made  Arnold  twist  contemptuous  lips: 


76  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  There  is  only  one  really  beautiful  person  in  Rome." 

"  Then  she  is  Lady  Cannynge." 

She  smiled  into  his  handsome  eyes. 

"  Yes,  yes,  she  is !  And  Lady  Cannynge  is  going  to  do  great 
things  this  season.  What  was  it  like  yesterday?"  she  added, 
turning  towards  Hereward  Arnold.  "  I  meant  to  come  but 
Leila  Teodori  made  me  play.  So  few  of  the  women  here  play 
really  well,  and  she  had  Count  Von  Kreuz  coming." 

"Yes,  what  was  it  like?"  echoed  the  Marchesa,  suddenly 
emerging  from  her  duties  as  hostess.  "  Extraordinary  I  sup- 
pose with  this  new  idea  of  mixing  people  up  like  the  presents 
one  draws  in  a  charity  tea." 

"  Oh,  it  was  all  right,"  said  Arnold,  remembering  he  was 
a  diplomat.     "  I  couldn't  stay  very  long." 

"  Were  there  any  archaeologists  ?  "  chirped  the  Countess. 

"  I  believe  there  was  one.  But  he  was  in  the  tea-room  all 
the  time  I  was  there,  with  Miss  Hopetown. 

"  They  tell  me  the  Ambassador  is  determined  she  shall  be 
Venus  in  the  tableaux  at  the  German  Embassy  for  the  suffer- 
ers from  the  Rhine  inundations,"  said  the  Marchesa. 

"  The  Hopetov/n  girl !  "  cried  out  the  Countess,  turning 
sharply.  '*  But  she  is  perfectly  square.  How  can  she  wear 
draperies?     And  who  ever  heard  of  a  dark  Venus?" 

"  She  certainly  will  not  be  the  Mother  of  Harmonia,"  mur- 
mured Prince  Perreto  to  Arnold,  with  a  fine  smile. 

"  She  is  as  square  as  my  jewel  case,"  said  the  Countess. 

An  animation  of  temper  lit  up  her  face,  almost  as  if  with 
a  green  light. 

"  She  might  do  for  Bellona  —  was  it  Bellona  who  had  some- 
thing to  do  with  apple  trees,  in  those  times?" 

She  looked  up  at  Vitali,  who  replied: 

"  Chi  lo  sa?  " 

"  Or  somebody  of  that  kind,  rustic  and  awkward.  But  as 
for  Venus!  Why  even  Dolores  Cannynge  would  be  better, 
though  she  looks  almost  like  a  Creole." 

"  And  so  the  Cannynge  is  to  do  great  things  this  season," 
said  Prince  Perreto,  to  change  the  conversation. 

"  What  is  she  going  to  do?  "  said  a  languid  Roman  princess, 
with  auburn  hair,  who  came  slowly  up  at  that  moment,  and 
stood  leaning  on  an  en  tout  cas  with  a  beautiful  jade  handle. 

"  Have  all  the  clever  people  at  her  parties  as  well  as  us," 
snapped  the  Countess  decisively. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  77 

"Aren't  we  clever?"  asked  the  Princess. 

She  looked  vaguely  at  the  floor,  and  moved  the  point  of  the 
en  tout  cas  gently  to  and  fro. 

The  little  Countess,  who  had  the  Frenchwoman's  contempt 
for  slow  wits,  though  she  posed  as  a  lovely  little  frivolity  who 
had  become  thoroughly  Italianized,  made  a  grimace  at  Here- 
ward  Arnold. 

"  Not  as  archaeologists  and  writers,  Mimetta,"  she  said 
sharply. 

"  No?  But  in  our  way!  "  murmured  the  Princess,  still  look- 
ing at  the  floor,  and  turning  her  fine  profile  towards  the  three 
men.     "  Aren't  we  clever  in  our  way?  " 

She  glanced  up  at  vacancy. 

"  There  are  so  many  ways,"  she  almost  whispered. 

And  she  moved  slowly  towards  the  tea-room,  gazing  before 
her,  and  holding  her  head  slightly  on  one  side. 

"  Since  the  Duca  told  Mimetta  she  looked  like  a  Sphinx 
she  has  become  a  bore  numero  un,"  said  the  Countess  pettishly. 

"  What  Duca?  "  asked  Arnold. 

"  My  dear  boy !  when  one  says  '  the  Duca '  everyone  knows, 
or  ought  to  know.     Napoii  Bella!  " 

Prince  Perreto  smiled  and  murmured  something  into  the 
Countess's  ear. 

"  I  know,"  she  answered.  "  I  was  at  Naples  at  the  time. 
It  was  very  foolish  of  them  both  to  manage  so  badly." 

She  looked  round  her,  and  said  to  the  company  generally; 

"  One  thing  they  can  do  in  France.  They  can  manage  their 
afifairs  better  than  they  are  managed  here." 

At  that  moment  a  very  tall  and  clean-shaven  man  of  about 
thirty,  an  Italian,  came  up,  bowed  over  the  Marchesa's  hand, 
and  said: 

"  Princess  Mancelll  is  in  the  next  room.  She  told  me  to 
say  she  was  coming  In  to  you,  but  Countess  Maria  made  her 
stop  and  have  tea  first.     Contessa  bclla!  " 

He  kissed  Countess  Boccara's  hand  with  an  air  of  profound 
adoration,  which  almost  amounted  to  passion. 

"  The  Mancelll !  "  exclaimed  the  Marchesa. 

Again  the  fat  pearl  shook  in  the  front  of  her  wig,  as  if  it 
had  become  tremulous  in  sympathy  with  her  excitement. 

Her  tufted  eyebrows  sprang  up  and  down. 

"  I  think  I'll  go  into  the  tea-room.  I  will  have  a  cup  of 
tea  too." 


78  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

She  got  up,  arranging  the  many  rings  on  her  rheumatic  hands. 

"How  amusing  if  Carelli  were  to  come!"  she  said,  in  a 
happily,  private,  but  audible  voice  to  the  Countess. 

"  Oh,  Cesare  never  goes  to  an  afternoon,"  said  the  little 
Boccara. 

"  He  came  to  one  of  mine  once,  with  her." 

The  Marchesa  walked  into  the  tea-room. 

"  Sit  down,  Marcantonio,"  said  the  Countess.  *'  Oh,  Barone, 
are  you  back  from  Vienna.  Come  and  tell  us  all  about  Kin- 
sky's  shoot." 

She  smiled  sweetly  on  a  fair  and  bald  young  man,  who  has- 
tened to  join  her  court. 

Secretly  she  was  longing  to  accompany  the  Marchesa  into 
the  tea-room. 

Every  smart  woman  in  Rome  was  at  this  moment  keenly  in- 
terested in  Princess  Mancelli,  who  had  not  as  yet  appeared  in 
public  since  her  return  from  the  villeggiatura;  and  Countess 
Boccara  was  as  curious  as  a  soubrette.  But  she  did  not  choose 
to  show  it  just  now.  And  she  had  five  men  sitting  around  her, 
and  admiring  that  waist  for  which  she  lived. 

Near  the  tea-table,  sipping  a  cup  of  tea  and  nibbling  a  tiny 
cake  covered  with  pink  sugar,  the  Marchesa  found  Princess 
Mancelli,  standing  in  a  group  of  women. 

Lisetta  Mancelli,  born  Lisetta  Torquemara,  the  child  of 
Prince  Torquemara  and  Anna,  eldest  daughter  of  Lord  Ardran, 
an  Irish  peer,  was  a  grande  amoureuse  and  a  finished  woman 
of  the  world.  She  had  within  her  depths  of  pride,  but  she 
seldom  showed  them,  depths  of  passion  which  only  Cesare  Ca- 
relli had  sounded,  depths  of  the  devouring  and  flame-like  jeal- 
ousy which  is  the  shadow  of  such  pride  and  such  passion  as 
hers.  Before  all  things  she  was  dominating.  Everyone  felt 
her  Influence.  When  she  came  into  any  room,  however 
crowded,  she  made  people  conscious  that  she,  a  personality,  was 
there.  Girls  who  aspired  to  success  in  the  world  made  of  her 
a  fetish.  She  was  their  ideal  mondaine,  and  they  worshiped 
her  from  afar,  for  she  would  not  be  bothered  with  girls  at 
close  quarters.  The  married  women  of  Rome  for  years  had 
looked  upon  her  as  perhaps  the  leader  in  all  things  connected 
with  the  worldly  life.  As  a  woman  of  the  world  and  a  great 
lady  she  had  a  reputation  that  went  beyond  the  borders  of 
Italy.  Men,  both  old  and  young,  sporting  and  intellectual, 
arrives  and  aspiring,  were  delighted,  and  even  grateful,  if  she 
allowed  them  to  be  in  her  special  set. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  79 

Nevertheless  she  had  failed  to  hold  her  husband,  and  now  it 
was  whispered  everywhere  had  been  deserted  by  her  lover. 

Was  there  then  some  broken  link  in  the  chain  of  her  influ- 
ence, some  secret  weakness  or  failure  in  her  character,  which 
only  those  discovered  whom  she  allowed  to  draw  near  to  her 
real  self,  or  whom  she  deliberately  drew  to  her  by  a  conscious 
exertion  of  the  will?  If  there  was,  no  sign  of  it  was  dis- 
coverable in  her  face. 

The  first  impression  of  her  was  that  she  was  full  of  subtle- 
ties, and  that  impression  grew.  She  was  not  a  beauty.  She 
was  an  elegante  with  certain  physical  attractions  for  men ;  a 
perfect  figure  of  the  voluptuous  type,  not  exceptionally  tall, 
extraordinarily  expressive  and  beautiful  hands  and  wrists,  a 
lovely  skin,  eyes  not  specially  large  but  so  bright  and  so  fiery 
that  they  startled,  sometimes  troubled,  those  who  for  the  first 
time  suffered  their  gaze,  clouds  of  dark  hair  that  looked  vic- 
toriously vital,  like  the  hair  of  a  Victory  dancing  in  despite  of 
all  the  opposition  of  the  Heavens  and  the  Winds.  And  she 
was  more  than  perfectly  self-possessed.  There  was  something 
in  her  expression  and  manner  quietly  defiant  of  opinion,  with- 
out hardness,  as  if  her  inner  self  knew  so  absolutely  that  it 
could  not  be  changed,  must  remain  forever  just  what  it  was, 
that  it  was  unable  even  to  try  to  hide  its  knowledge  from  a 
w^orld  that  asks  wax  from  us  on  which  it  may  set  its  crude  and 
its  various  impressions. 

Of  this  woman,  at  this  moment,  all  Rome  was  beginning  to 
whisper  not  triumphs  but  humiliation.  Of  course  she  knew 
it.  No  living  woman  knew  her  Rome  better  than  did  Lisetta 
Mancelli".  Long  ago,  by  being  her  unyielding  self  she  had 
nearly  suffered  the  last  condemnation  of  Rome.  She  had 
known  what  she  risked  when  she  seized  on  the  youth  and  the 
fire  of  Cesare  Carelli.  But  she  had  needed  them  and  she  had 
taken  them.  And  she  had  lived  to  see  the  hands  of  Rome  — 
her  Rome!  —  almost  piously  raised  as  in  blessing  above  her 
head  and  the  head  of  her  lover.  Now  she  saw  those  hands 
wavering,  as  if,  in  surprised  horror,  Rome  began  to  suspect 
there  was  no  longer  any  one  to  bless. 

And  she  looked  very  piercing  and  serene  as  she  now  faced 
Rome  for  the  first  time  since  the  rumored  rupture. 

It  was  characteristic  of  her  that  she  allowed  herself  at  such 
a  moment  to  be  surrounded  not  by  men  but  by  women.  She 
was  not  a  coward.  If  pain  had  to  be,  she  was  of  the  kind 
that  goes  to  meet  it.     As  yet  she  was  ignorant  who  the  woman 


8o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

was  who  had  displaced  her  from  the  heart  of  her  lover.  She 
had  been  told  by  the  one  man,  the  only  person  to  whom  she 
had  spoken  of  her  catastrophe,  who  the  woman  was.  She  had 
been  told  that  the  woman  was  Dolores.  But  she  held  herself 
ignorant.  For  in  such  matters  she  did  not  believe  in  the  intui- 
tions of  men,  and  she  had  not  convinced  herself  of  the  truth  of 
what  she  had  been  told.  On  the  contrary  she  had  some  suspicion 
that  what  Cesare  had  done  was  probably  a  prelude  to  some 
project  of  marriage.  His  mother  and  father  had  perhaps  at 
last  persuaded  him  to  seek  a  wife,  and,  unlike  many  Roman 
men,  he  had  thought  it  honorable  first  to  end  what  had  been 
almost  like  a  marriage,  only  much  more  passionate  and  romantic. 

She  stood  among  ruins,  with  the  dust  of  their  fall  rising  like 
a  cloud  about  her,  and  sipped  her  tea  in  the  midst  of  the  group 
of  women,  which  her  hostess  now  eagerly  joined. 

Although  to  men  Princess  Mancelli  often  seemed  exquisitely 
feminine,  to  some  women  she  showed  a  side  of  her  character 
that,  to  them,  seemed  almost  masculine,  and  that  half-aiarmed 
while  it  subjugated  them.  She  was  clever,  and  intellectual, 
and  there  were  times  when  she  intimated  a  contempt  of  gossip 
that  resembled -a  man's.  And  in  her  nature  there  was  also  a 
love  of  sport  not  often  found  in  Roman  women.  They  some- 
times appear  to  like  a  sport  if  it  is  fashionable.  Princess  Man- 
celli liked  sport  for  its  own  sake.  She  had  been  known  to  go 
duck  shooting  in  the  Pontine  marshes.  And  she  was  a  hard 
rider  to  hounds. 

As  the  Marchesa  came  up  the  Princess  was  talking  of  the 
sporting  side  of  the  winter  season  in  Rome,  and  the  Marchesa 
caught  the  word  "  pity,"  spoken  with  a  touch  of  smiling  con- 
tempt. 

"What  is  a  pity,  Lisetta?"  she  asked,  greeting  the  Prin- 
cess with  the  warmth  of  an  ardent  curiosity. 

The  Princess  looked  round  her  to  the  group  of  women  with 
her  strangely  piercing  eyes. 

*'  I  was  only  saying  it  was  a  pity  so  few  of  the  Roman 
women  go  out  with  the  hounds.  Without  the  Americans  and 
the  Austrians,  and  two  or  three  English  —  such  as  Lady  Can- 
nynge  —  there  would  be  no  women  at  all  who  really  follow,  and 
who  aren't  afraid  of  the  obstacles." 

"  You  are  talking  about  hunting !  "  said  the  Marchesa,  with 
obvious  disappointment. 

"Why  not?" 

The  Princess  put  down  her  tea-cup. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  8i 

"  Remember  I  have  been  away  from  Rome  for  a  long  time, 
and  have  lost  our  habit  of  gossip.  But  I  shall  soon  find  it 
again  no  doubt." 

"  You  talk  of  the  Englishwomen  hunting  in  Rome,"  observed 
Donna  Alice  Metardi,  a  very  young  American  recently  married 
to  a  Roman.  "  And  Lady  Cannynge.  Well,  I  can  tell  you 
Lady  Cannynge's  just  tired  of  it.  She's  not  buying  any  horses 
this  season." 

"  Isn't  she  ?  "  said  the  Princess,  with  indifference.  "  That 
Is  one  woman  the  less  in  our  little  band  then.  But  why  is  she 
giving  it  up?  " 

"  She  says  it's  too  expensive." 

"  But  her  husband  has  come  Into  any  amount  of  money," 
said  the  Marchesa.  "  That  is  why  he  retired  from  the  diplo- 
matic service  before  he  became  an  ambassador.  She  was 
furious  about  it.     She  wanted  to  be  '  Her  Excellency.'  " 

"  Well,  that's  what  she  says." 

"  But  what  we  want  is  never  too  expensive,"  said  the  Prin- 
cess negligently. 

Donna  Alice's  New  England  face  expanded  in  a  smile. 

"That's  so!" 

"  Perhaps  Lady  Cannynge  can't  do  the  two  things  at  once," 
observed  a  pretty  Dutchwoman,  who  was  sitting  near  the  tea- 
table  placidly  and  listening  to  the  talic.. 

"What  two  things,  Madame  de  Heder?"  asked  the  Mar- 
chesa. 

"  Hunting  and  lion  hunting.  Lady  Cannynge  is  getting  to 
know  all  the  interesting  people  we  never  meet ;  the  archaeolo- 
gists, the  historians,  the  young  painters,  the  musicians;  that  world 
we  don't  touch,  except  perhaps  with  the  tips  of  our  fingers  once 
or  twice  in  a  season  —  when  we  want  to  get  something  out  of 
it.     For  beneficenza  of  course!     Ca  va  sans  dire  I" 

Calmly  the  Dutchwoman  looked  round  her  with  her  light 
and  sincere  eyes,  in  which  there  was  a  flicker  of  satire. 

"  Perhaps  the  cultivation  of  that  world  leaves  Lady  Can- 
nynge no  time  for  hunting,"  she  concluded  rather  drily. 

"  I  hear  the  Cannynges'  apartment  is  lovely,"  said  Princess 
jMancelli.     "  No  doubt  she  wants  to  show  it  to  every  one." 

"Well,  but  —  to  archaeologists  and  historians!"  exclaimed 
the  Marchesa,  who  had  a  holy  horror  of  antiquities,  which  in- 
deed were  the  only  things  that  seemed  thoroughly  objectionable 
to  her  in  her  beloved  Rome. 

"  Bettina,  cara,  I  know  a  historian  here  in  Rome  who  has 


82  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

more  feeling  for  beauty,  and  more  sense  of  romance,  than  all 
we  women  put  together  have,"  said  Princess  Mancelli. 

Suddenly  her  eyes  became  fiery,  and  her  dark  face  filled  with 
expression. 

"  We  commit  a  great  mistake  in  ignoring  so  much  that  makes 
our  Rome  grand  and  unique.  1  have  always  thought  so,"  she 
added.  "  And  so  Lady  Cannynge  is  going  to  give  us,  Romans, 
a  lead,  and  not  in  the  hunting  field!  " 

There  was  a  sound  of  pride  in  her  low  voice  as  she  said 
the  last  words. 

Many  Romans  secretly  resent  the  possessive  manners  and  ac- 
tions of  the  English  and  Americans  who  swarm  in  the  streets 
of  Rome,  who  own  many  of  the  finest  houses  and  apartments, 
give  the  most  elaborate  parties,  and  permeate  society,  perhaps 
sometimes  rather  aggressively.  Princess  Mancelli  was  one  of 
these  Romans.  As  a  rule  she  concealed  the  fact.  For  she 
knew  her  world,  and  knew  what  it  was  wise  to  conceal  from 
it.  To-day,  suddenly  a  flame  leapt  up  within  her  and  shot  out 
towards  Dolores.  For  a  moment  Dolores  bore  the  sins  of  a 
multitude  of  forestieri  in  the  mind  of  this  Roman  lady,  for 
a  moment  she  deserved  punishment  for  them  all. 

And  yet  not  long  ago  Princess  Mancelli  had  listened  calmly, 
almost  incredulously,  to  a  statement  of  Montebruno's  involving 
Dolores  Cannynge.  Despite  her  apparent  serenity  the  mental 
atmosphere  in  which  she  found  herself  was  having  a  cumulative 
efitect  upon  her.  She  knew  what  all  these  women  were  think- 
ing about  as  they  stood  around  her.  And  though  her  complete 
self-possession  dominated  them,  and  to  a  casual  spectator  it 
would  have  seemed  as  if  she  was  the  ruling  spirit  among  them, 
she  felt  all  the  time  like  one  grasping  rags  in  the  frantic  en- 
deavor to  cover  her  nakedness. 

At  this  moment,  unable  to  endure  a  longer  suspension  of  her 
curiosity  although  it  was  mitigated  by  five  men,  Coun- 
tess Boccara  stepped  slowly  into  the  tea-room  followed  by  her 
train. 

She  and  the  Princess  disliked  each  other,  for  woman's  rea- 
sons. The  position  of  the  Princess  in  Rome  irritated  the  Coun- 
tess, who  wished  to  be  not  only  the  smartest,  but  also  the  most 
influential,  woman  in  their  small,  but  very  complex,  and  cosmo- 
politan, world.  Unfortunately,  though  she  was  an  ultra-smart 
woman  she  was  not  a  great  lady.  And  whenever  she  was 
where  Princess  Mancelli  was  somehow  she  was  subtly  made  to 
feel  it.     In  supreme  elegance  there  is  something  mental  which 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  83 

is  lacking  in  supreme  smartness.  The  Princess  was  supremely 
elegant,  the  Countess  was  only  supremely  smart.  Behind  her 
the  Princess  had  the  greatness  of  aristocratic  Rome,  and  the 
solid  traditions  of  aristocratic  England.  Whereas  the  Countess, 
behind  her,  had  only  the  wealth  and  the  business  capacity  of 
successful  commercial  France,  her  father  having  been  an  im- 
mensely rich  Lyons  silk  merchant. 

Therefore  she  disliked  the  Mancelli.  And  the  Princess 
disliked  her,  for  her  pretensions,  for  her  numerous  small  af- 
fectations, which  grated  upon  the  essentially  unaffected,  though 
exceedingly  secretive,  nature  which  is  characteristic  of  the  aris- 
tocratic Roman,  and  perhaps  because  of  the  great  success  of 
her  smartness. 

Nevertheless  the  two  women  were  very  intimate  acquaint- 
ances, played  bridge  together,  sat  in  the  same  box  very  often 
at  the  opera,  and  continually  dined  in  each  other's  apartments. 

Pourquoif 

"  Pourquoi  pas? "  As  the  Countess  would  probably  have 
said. 

"Lisetta!  This  is  our  Rome  indeed  now  you  are  back  to 
lead  us,"  she  dropped  out  languidly  in  Italian,  as  she  came 
up.  "  We  other  cosmopolitans  we  can  never  really  lead  in 
Rome,  even  if  we  seem  to.  I  always  say  that.  We  are  too 
essentially  modern.  We  have  not  within  us  that  deep  —  silly 
people  call  it  stagnant  —  seriousness  which  belongs  to  every 
true  Roman." 

Her  voice  and  manner  were  threaded  with  delicate  malice, 
as  the  Marchesa's  wig  was  threaded  with  the  riband  of  watered 
silk.  ^ 

Princess  Mancelli  looked  quietly  at  the  little  Boccara. 

"  Our  Rome !  "  she  said. 

Then  she  turned  carelessly  to  Prince  Perreto,  and  began  to 
speak  to  him  about  a  new  book  on  the  eternal,  but  eternally 
interesting,  subject  of  the  Risorgimenio. 

But  Countess  Boccara  had  plenty  of  spirit  —  some  called  it 
impudence  —  and  almost  immediately  she  glided  into  their  con- 
versation, and  with  remarkable  adroitness  succeeded  in  leading 
it  from  Garibaldi  and  Cavour,  from  Caprera  and  Marsala,  back 
to  the  modern  Rome  and  United  Italy  which,  with  Paris,  Monte 
Carlo,  and  two  or  three  other  places  with  Casinos,  were  all 
the  world  to  her. 

"You  are  hunting  this  season,  of  course,  Lisetta?"  she  said, 
soon. 


«4  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"But,  of  course!"  said  the  Princess.  "When  have  I  not 
hunted?  Baron  Gino  has  picked  up  two  capital  hunters  for 
me,  both  of  them  Irish  bred." 

"  I  shall  look  out  for  you  at  the  meet  on  Thursday,"  said 
the  Countess.     "  I  am  going  to  motor  out  with  the  Palacci." 

She  paused,  then,  looking  straight  into  the  Princess's  piercing 
eyes,  she  added : 

"  It  will  be  your  first  day  out  this  season,  won't  it?" 

"Yes." 

"  You  are  sure  to  enjoy  it.  The  meet  is  at  the  Divino 
J  more." 

She  dropped  her  eyes,  and  turned  to  speak  to  Hereward  Ar- 
nold. As  she  did  so  she  saw  Dolores  in  the  distance  coming 
slowly  towards  the  tea-room. 

"There  is  that  perfectly  sweet  Lady  Cannynge!"  said 
Donna  Alice  Metardi,  who  was  a  worshiper  of  Dolores. 

An  Englishwoman,  who  was  just  putting  down  a  tea-cup, 
remarked : 

"  She  has  a  very  sweet  face.  But  I  must  say  lately  I  think 
she's  gone  of^.  She's  beginning  to  look  rather  hard  about  the 
mouth." 

"  Hard!  Lady  Cannynge!  Oh  no!  She's  ever  so  sweet!  " 
protested  Donna  Alice,  almost  as  if  personally  attacked. 

"  Well,  I  think  she's  getting  to  look  hard,"  returned  the 
Englishwoman ;  an  inflexible  banker's  wife  called  Mrs.  Craw- 
bridge,  who  was  severely  spending  the  winter  in  Rome. 

Countess  Boccara  darted  an  almost  cruelly  searching  glance 
at  Dolores,  who  came  up  at  this  moment  and  began  to  greet 
her  acquaintances. 

She  realized  at  once  that  Mrs.  Crawbridge  was  right.  There 
was  a  slight,  but  definite,  change  in  the  "  most  beautiful  per- 
son in  Rome."  The  wistfulness  and  the  mystery  were  still  in 
the  eyes  and  on  the  lips.  But  there  was  also  something  fixed 
and  cold  in  the  small  face,  a  numbness  that  vaguely  altered  it, 
as  the  touch  of  frost  alters  a  landscape. 

Dolores  greeted  the  Marchesa  and  Countess  Boccara,  then 
turned  to  Princess  Mancelli. 

"  I  heard  you  had  just  come  back  to  Rome,"  she  said.  "  My 
husband  and  I  have  been  here  for  ages.  W'^e  arrived  in  Octo- 
ber to  see  about  our  new  apartment." 

"  I  hear  it  is  quite  lovely,"  said  the  Princess. 

She  held  the  hand  of  Dolores  for  perhaps  a  brief  instant 
longer  than  was  usual. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  85 

"  My  husband  thinks  it  is  all  right.  And  he  is  very  diffi- 
cult to  please,  in  that  way." 

"  And  in  all  other  ways  ?  "  asked  the  Princess  lightly. 

A  smile  played  about  her  lips,  but  her  eyes  looked  unsmiling. 

"The  other  ways?" 

"  Men  are  so  exigent  as  a  rule  —  aren't  they?" 

There  was  a  hint  almost  of  malice  in  the  voice.  Why  she 
scarcely  knew;  It  immediately  roused  in  Dolores  a  defensive 
feeling  that  was  fiery. 

"  Perhaps  they  are.     But  my  husband  isn't,"  she  said. 

The  Princess  turned  away  to  speak  to  an  old  Senator  who 
was  one  of  her  devout  admirers. 

"  That  woman's  in  love  with  her  husband !  "  she  thought. 


CHAPTER  VII 

One  afternoon,  just  before  Christmas,  Denzll  came  in  from 
the  Embassy  after  a  busy  day's  work,  and  found  his  wife 
dressed  to  go  out.  The  children  were  taking  an  airing  in  the 
Borghese  gardens,  but  would  doubtless  very  soon  return  home. 
For  the  hour  of  twilight  was  not  far  off,  and  they  were  always 
hungry  at  tea-time. 

"Hullo,  Ed!  Where  are  you  off  to?"  said  Denzil,  in  a 
husky  voice. 

He  came  close  to  his  wife,  and,  staring  at  her,  he  added: 

*'  What  a  smart  hat,  you  worldly  creature !  " 

"I  made  it  myself.  Doesn't  it  look  expensive?  And  how 
it  would  be  despised  if  all  the  women  I  am  going  to  meet  this 
afternoon  knew  what  it  cost!  " 

"  And  how  much  was  that?  " 

*'  Never  mind,  you  old  Franzi.  Such  knowledge  is  not  for 
men." 

He  lowered  his  rather  bull-like  head,  she  raised  hers  simul- 
taneously, and  a  kiss  was.  One  could  hardly  say  they  kissed, 
so  natural,  so  unthought  about,  so  inevitable  seemed  the  meet- 
ing of  their  lips. 

"  Where  are  you  going,  Ed  ?  "  asked  Denzil.  **  Must  you  be 
off  at  once?  " 

"  Do  you  want  me?  " 

"  I  thought  I  would  have  a  cigar,  and  that  you  might  enjoy 
a  half-hour  of  ecstasy  by  sitting  near  me  and  watching  me 
smoke  it." 


86  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Franzi,  how  could  that  be  ecstasy?  " 

"  I  didn't  smoke  even  one  yesterday,  and  I've  had  a  lot  of 
work.  I  feel  as  if  I  must.  Besides,  honestly  I  don't  believe 
the  smoking  has  anything  to  do  with  my  voice.  Burton,  the 
American  Naval  fellow  who's  just  come  here,  is  twice  as  hoarse 
as  I  am.  And  he  never  smokes  at  all.  It  seems  to  be  a  sort 
of  epidemic  going  about  Rome,  due  to  all  this  dust  from  the 
building  operations." 

"Well,  I  don't  want  to  be  a  brute.  But  let  it  be  one  of 
those  teeny  light-colored  ones." 

"  Right  you  are." 

Denzil  took  his  wife  by  the  arm,  and  they  went  down  the 
broad  passage  to  his  study. 

It  was  the  coziest  room  in  the  flat  except  the  nursery,  and 
at  this  moment  it  was,  as  Denzil  sometimes  said,  "  flavored 
with  nursery,"  for  a  small,  but  very  finished  gollywog  belong- 
ing to  Viola  was  seated  in  Denzil's  special  armchair,  looking 
askance  at  the  books  and  papers,  and  a  Teddy  bear  lay  on  its 
back  near  the  hearth  with  its  head  reposing  on  the  last  Literary 
Supplement  of  the  Times. 

Neither  husband  nor  wife  made  any  remark  on  these  tenants. 
Mrs.  Denzil  sat  down  on  a  worn  sofa  which  was  placed  at  right 
angles  to  the  fireplace,  and  Denzil,  after  carefully  cutting, 
lighting,  and  drawing  at  a  small  and  pale  cigar,  went  over  to 
his  chair,  very  gently  moved  the  gollywog  into  one  of  its 
angles,  and  then  took  his  seat  beside  it  with  a  comfortable 
sigh  of  satisfaction. 

"What  a  blessing  a  cigar  is!"  he  said,  crossing  his  feet. 
I  don't  know  how  I  got  through  yesterday  without  one,  Ed. 
Only  my  holy  fear  of  you  kept  me  straight.  But  to-day  I  must 
have  sinned  whatever  your  wrath." 

"Why  to-day,  Franzi?" 

"  Because  I  have  been  bothered  a  bit.'* 

He  pulled  happily  at  the  little  cigar,  and  watched  the  smoke 
go  up  in  the  room  where  the  light  was  growing  vague  as  the 
afternoon  wore  on  towards  the  twilight. 

"  Has  something  gone  off  the  rails?  " 

Mrs.  Denzil  leaned  against  the  arm  of  the  sofa,  looking 
towards  her  husband.  Her  voice  was  very  quiet  and  even. 
But  she  felt  sure  Franzi  had  been  making  a  gaffe. 

"  Oh,  it's  nothing  of  importance.  Only  it  seems  I've  put 
a  silly  woman  out." 

"  Of  course!  "  said  Mrs.  Denzil's  mind,  while  her  voice  said 
"Have  you?" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  87 

"  You  know  when  we  had  that  Embassy  dinner  for  the  Prince 
and  Princess  " —  he  mentioned  the  names  of  two  English  royal- 
ties — "  and  there  was  all  that  row  about  the  Tomtit  being 
sent  in  by  mistake  with  a  mere  Mrs." 

The  Tomtit  was  the  ambassador  who  represented  one  of  the 
great  powers  in  Rome. 

"  Of  course  I  do.  But  it  is  all  right.  The  Tomtit  him- 
self was  laughing  about  it  with  me  only  yesterday  at  the 
Wolkonskys," 

"Yes,  the  Tomtit's  got  over  it.     But  that  isn't  the  point." 

Mrs.  Denzil  quietly  lit  a  cigarette.  What  had  the  dear  old 
blunderer  been  up  to  now?  It  was  she  who  had  made  the 
ambassador  laugh.  But  now  there  were  other  consequences  of 
the  affair  to  be  dealt  with. 

"  No?  "  she  said,  dropping  the  match. 

"  It  is  the  mere  Mrs.  who  is  up  in  arms." 

"Mrs.  Slingsby?" 

"Yes.  I  didn't  know  It  was  she  who  had  been  palmed  off 
on  the  ambassador  —  at  least  I  had  utterly  forgotten  if  I  ever 
did  know  —  and  so  I  told  her  the  whole  story  at  the  Bul- 
garian minister's  lunch." 

"Franzi!" 

"  I  know !  I  told  her  the  Tomtit  had  said  it  was  an  af- 
front to  his  emperor  his  being  sent  in  at  an  official  dinner  in 
honor  of  English  royalties  with  a  nobody,  and  being  expected 
to  walk  in  behind  one  of  his  own  secretaries." 

"  You  said  that  to  Mrs.  Slingsby !  " 

"  Well,  Ed,  I  was  treating  her  as  a  real  pal,  and  I  hadn't 
the  faintest  idea " 

"Dear  old  boy,  when  do  you  have  —  in  such  matters?" 

"  It  seems  she's  cut  up  awfully  rough  about  the  whole  busi- 
ness, and  been  complaining  about  it  to  Lady  Gervase.  This 
sort  of  thing  is  the  nuisance  of  diplomacy,  Ed.  All  this  social 
rubbish,  all  this  everlasting  fuss  about  precedence,  is  unworthy 
of  any  one  with  a  genuine  mind.  And  yet  one  has  to  bother 
about  it  because  people  are  so  tiresome  and  petty." 

"  And  so  Mrs.  Slingsby 's  been  complaining!  " 

"  Yes." 

"What  did  she  say?" 

"  Heaven  knows.  But  the  ambassador  spoke  about  it  to  me. 
He  was  rather  put  out  about  something.  There  have  been  two 
or  three  other  little  mistakes  lately,  it  seems.  They  are  as 
particular  about  etiquette  here  as  they  are  in  Vienna.  If  old 
Theo  had  got  Vienna  he'd  have  had  a  terrible  time." 


88  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Mrs.  Denzil  knew  that  Sir  Theodore  was  quite  incapable  of 
making  such  social  mistakes  as  those  committed  by  her  husband. 
But  she  did  not  say  so.     She  was  thinking  busily. 

"  I  shall  probably  meet  Kitty  Slingsby  this  afternoon,"  she 
said  presently. 

"Where?" 

"  At  the  Cannynges." 

*'  Is  that  where  you  are  going  in  the  hat  ?  " 

"Yes.    Why  don't  j'ou  come  too?" 

"  No,  Ed,  not  even  Dolores  and  Theo  could  tempt  me  to 
show  up  in  the  afternoon.     Do  you  know  I  begin  to  pity  Theo." 

"Why?" 

"  Always  people  in  the  house.  A  man  can't  like  it.  A  man 
wants  his  home  to  be  his  own.  He  likes  to  have  some  privacy 
in  it,  some  peace." 

As  he  spoke  he  glanced  about  the  room,  then  at  his  wife, 
and  heaved  a  slight  sigh  of  satisfaction  at  the  calm  of  their 
interior. 

"  Dolores  is  getting  together  some  very  interesting  people, 
I  believe,"  observed  Mrs.  Denzil  mildly. 

"I  daresay  she  is.  But  it's  everlasting:  especially  in  the 
afternoon  when  every  man  likes  to  be  free," 

"  Theodore  isn't  obliged  to  be  always  there,  I  suppose." 

"  Of  course  not.  But  there  always  seems  to  be  some  special 
interesting  bore  he  must  meet  coute  que  coute.  Oh,  Ed,  how 
delightful  it  is  to  put  one's  feet  in  one's  fender,  and  to  know 
that  not  a  single  interesting  person  will  get  inside  one's  door 
for  a  good  twenty-four  hours  at  the  very  least !  " 

She  laughed  happily. 

"  You  and  I  were  born  to  be  fogies,  Franzi." 

"  Thank  God  for  it." 

"  Let's  try  to  be  diplomatic  fogies,  eh  ?     Shall  we  ?  " 

"Wasp!  Would  you  plant  a  sting  in  vour  faithful  hus- 
band?" 

He  touched  her  hand, 

"  But  seriously  Ed,  I  can't  think  what's  come  to  Dolores 
lately.  She  used  to  be  so  simple  and  natural.  And  now  she 
seems  to  be  perpetually  straining  to  be  something  she  isn't, 
aiming  at  wit,  superficial  brilliance,  and  all  the  rubbish  the 
real  women  —  women  like  you  —  never  bother  about.  Surely 
you  must  have  noticed  it." 

"  She  wants  to  make  Theodore's  life  interesting  and  amusing." 

"Theo's!" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  89 

"  Now  that  he  has  nothing  special  to  do." 

"  You  think  she  does  it  all  for  Theo?  " 

"  I  expect  so." 

"  Then  she  forgets,  or  doesn't  know,  that  at  bottom  old 
Theo's  just  a  primitive  man  with  a  longing  for  the  primitive 
things.  He's  got  more  world-varnish  than  I  have,  but  he's  no 
more  worldly,  in  the  accepted  sense  of  the  term,  than  I  am. 
What  he  really  likes  is  just  to  drop  in  here  and  smoke  a  cigar 
with  me,  talk  over  things  quietly,  and  have  a  good  romp  with 
the  children.  He'd  do  it  every  day  if  Dolores  didn't  cram 
their  rooms  with  the  intellectual  salt  of  the  earth.  But  as  it 
is  he  comes  much  seldomer  than  he  used  to.  Haven't  you  no- 
ticed it?" 

"  Now  they're  settling  down  perhaps  they're  getting  to 
twig " 

"Slang!" 

"  They  may  be  getting  to  know  people  more  intimately." 

"  Whom  have  they  got  to-day  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know.    But  there's  to  be  music,  I  believe.    Franzi!  " 

"Well?" 

"  I  suppose  there  really  is  a  good  chance  of  your  getting 
Munich  eventually,  after  what  Sir  Allan  told  you  in  London." 

"  Remember,  it's  a  dead  secret!  Even  old  Theo  knows  noth- 
ing.    Yes,  there  should  be  a  good  chance." 

As  he  spoke  Denzil's  rather  inexpressive  face  showed  a  cer- 
tain brightness,  almost  an  eagerness. 

"  Let's  be  careful  not  to  spoil  it." 

"  Now,  what  are  you  up  to,  Ed  ?  " 

"  Well,  Kitty  Slingsby's  a  great  pal " 

"Pal!" 

"  Friend  —  friend  of  Sir  Allan's.  And  she's  a  cousin  of 
the  minister." 

"For  Foreign  Affairs!  By  Jove,  so  she  is!  I'd  forgotten 
all  about  that." 

"  The  more  you  remember  the  more  likely  you  are  to  get 
Munich,  I  guess." 

She  made  the  remark  seem  light  and  casual  by  the  little 
Americanism  with  which  she  closed  it.  She  got  up  from  the 
sofa. 

"I  must  go.     Have  you  any  message  for  Kitty  Slingsby?" 

"  Say  I  am  overwhelmed  with  contrition,  Ed.  The  truth  is 
all  these  silly  outside  things,  the  social  things  that  mean  noth- 
ing really,  never  hold  me  for  a  moment.     The  genuine  busi- 


90  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

ness  of  diplomacy,  foreign  affairs,  the  intricate  relations  between 
our  country  and  the  rest  of  the  nations,  the  undercurrents  of 
political  opinion  and  political  intrigue  —  that's  a  man's  busi- 
ness, that  and  anything  to  do  with  his  home.  But  " —  suddenly 
he  pulled  up  with  a  laugh  — "  no,  I  won't  defend  myself.  The 
fact  is  I'm  too  English,  right  through  all  the  grain.  And  there 
is  a  touch  of  the  barbarian  in  every  true  and  thorough  Anglo- 
Saxon,  I  suppose." 

He  took  hold  of  hi?  wife's  hand  and  drew  her  down  towards 
him. 

"  Be  Latin  for  me,  as  you  know  how  to  be,  Ed,  with  Mrs. 
Slingsby  to-day,"  he  said,  with  a  very  unusual  flash  of  percep- 
tion of  his  wife's  part  in  his  diplomatic  career. 

She  put  her  face  against  his  for  an  instant,  looked  in  a  glass, 
settled  the  wonderful  hat  with  a  light  and  intelligent  touch, 
and  went  out  of  the  room  smiling. 

She  loved  to  be  at  work  for  Franzi.  But  she  feared  Kitty 
Slingsby  would  be  more  difficult  to  deal  with  than  the  am- 
bassador whose  nickname  was  Tomtit. 

Left  alone  Denzil  lay  back  in  his  great  armchair.  The 
window  was  open  behind  him,  but  there  was  a  small  fire,  and 
the  room  was  pleasantly  warm.  The  little  cigar  was  not  yet 
smoked  out.  He  husbanded  it  with  a  cherishing  care.  As  the 
evening  drew  on  the  light  from  the  flames  grew  in  value  and 
beauty,  made  him  think  for  an  instant  of  winter  evenings  in 
England.  At  any  moment  he  might  hear  the  voices  of  the  re- 
turning children,  hear  their  feet  running  down  the  passage, 
their  small  hands  feeling  at  the  handle  of  the  door.  He  forgot 
all  about  Mrs,  Slingsby  and  his  maladroitness.  The  good  of 
life  took  hold  upon  him,  the  sane  beauty  and  glory  of  God's 
great  gift.  Easily,  too  easily  perhaps,  he  had  accepted  all  his 
happiness,  treating  it  as  men  treat  the  air,  breathing  it  in  and 
seldom  or  never  thinking  about  it.  Now,  for  a  little  while,  the 
looked  back,  and  then,  being  still  young  —  is  not  a  man  with  a 
career  still  young  at  forty? — he  looked  forward.  And  in  the 
foreground  of  both  prospects  there  was  happiness.  Indeed  the 
future  glowed  with  an  even  clearer  radiance  than  the  past. 
For  if  he  was  promoted  to  Munich,  as  seemed  probable,  in  no 
very  long  time  he  would  be  a  minister,  and  his  own  master 
under  Government.  And  from  minister  some  day  he  would 
no  doubt  take  the  great  step  to  the  rank  of  ambassador.  His 
thought  switched  off  that  track  and  went  to  his  friend,  Theo- 
dore.    Always  Denzil  had  regretted  his  friend's  retirement,  but 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  91 

never  so  much  as  this  evening,  when  his  own  prospect  widened 
and  his  own  life  seemed  very  good.  Poor  old  Theo !  What  a 
mistake  he  had  made  in  retiring!  Such  a  clever  diplomat  to 
be  so  impulsive  in  a  personal  matter!  It  was  all  over  for  him, 
and  it  was  all  beginning  for  Francis  Denzil!  In  his  happiness 
Denzil  found  room  for  sympathy  with  his  friend.  Indeed,  at 
that  moment  he  felt,  as  many  another  good  man  has  felt,  as  if 
his  happiness  were  a  strong  light  by  means  of  which  he  saw 
clearly  into  the  heart  of  another.  Denzil's  affections  were  not 
very  widely  distributed.  They  were  concentrated  and  very 
strong.  He  loved  Sir  Theodore  with  a  certain  fine  reserve, 
with  a  certain  close-fibred  strength.  And  as  he  sat  by  the  fire 
resting,  and  finishing  his  cigar,  he  wished  with  a  very  unusual 
vehemence  that  "  old  Theo  "  had  not  his  luck,  he  would  not 
have  parted  with  that  for  anything,  but  as  much  luck  as  he  had. 

He  heard  a  step  in  the  passage,  a  knock  at  his  door. 

"  Avant'i!  ■"  he  said  huskily. 

He  cleared  his  throat. 

The  door  opened  and  Sir  Theodore  came  m. 

"  Theo !  I  was  just  thinking  about  you,  but  as  to  expecting 
you  to-day  —  well !  " 

He  held  out  his  hand  without  getting  up.  Sir  Theodore 
grasped  it,  turned  and  shut  the  door. 

"Are  the  children  still  out?"  he  asked,  coming  up  to  the 
fire. 

"  Yes.  They're  unusually  late  to-day.  So  you've  fled !  You 
couldn't  stand  any  more  of  it?" 

Sir  Theodore  looked  down  at  his  friend  with  a  hint  of  sur- 
prise in  eyes  and  bearing. 

"Fled  — from  what?" 

"  The  Barbcrini  music  combined  with  hats.  Ed  has  just 
gone  to  listen  to  the  former  and  add  a  remarkable  monster  Zo 
the  latter." 

"  I'd  forgotten  all  about  It." 

Sir  Theodore  looked  almost  startled  and  then  decidedly 
vexed. 

"  What  a  bore !  "  he  added. 

He  took  out  his  watch  and  glanced  at  It. 

"  I  ought  to  go  at  once." 

He  kept  the  watch  In  his  hand  for  a  moment.  Denzil  stared 
up  at  him.  Denzil  had  just  finished  the  cigar,  and  now,  re- 
luctantly, let  the  end  of  It  fall  into  the  fender.  He  longed 
to  light  another,  and  to  see  his  friend  sit  down   In  the  big 


92  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

chair  near  his  and  light  up  too.  But  he  did  not  say  so.  He 
only  stared  with  his  short-sighted  eyes. 

Sir  Theodore  put  the  watch  back  slowly  into  his  pocket. 

"  The  music  is  going  to  be  good,  Franzi,"  he  said,  moving 
his  chin  so  that  his  pointed  beard  shifted  sideways.  "  And 
you've  finished  your  cigar." 

"Ehu!" 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  Denzil  said: 

"  Very  much  regrets  that  a  previous  engagement!  " 

"  What  previous  engagement?  " 

"  A  domestic  one,  Theo.  I've  seen  nothing  of  the  brats  to- 
day." 

"  But  they're  not  in." 

"  They  will  be  directly." 

"  Directly  your  door  shuts  behind  me,  no  doubt,"  said  Sir 
Theodore. 

His  deep  bass  voice  sounded  almost  harsh  for  an  Instant. 

Still  Denzil  did  not  ask  him  to  stay.  He  was  very  loyal 
to  Dolores.  She  was  the  wife  of  his  friend  and  a  sweet 
woman. 

Sir  Theodore  turned,  bent  down,  and  warmed  his  hands  at 
the  fire.  Denzil  sat  silent.  Again  by  the  light  of  his  own 
happiness  he  saw  into  the  dark  places  of  his  friend's  apparently 
fortunate  life. 

Suddenly  Sir  Theodore  straightened  himself  up  and  wheeled 
round. 

"  I  must  stay  a  few  minutes,"  he  said.  "  I  genuinely  for- 
got about  this  affair  at  home." 

Even  as  he  spoke  the  last  tv/o  words  he  seemed  to  feel  that 
they  were  full  of  irony,  and  he  added : 

"  If  one  can  call  an  apartment  in  a  palace  that  doesn't  be- 
long to  one,  haunted  by  strangers  a  home.  Francis,  let  me 
have  one  of  those  little  cigars  of  yours.  That  won't  take  me 
long  to  smoke,  and  I  can  jump  into  a  fiacre  afterwards.  It's 
no  distance.     I  should  be  late  anyhow." 

Denzil  handed  his  friend  the  cigar  box  in  silence;  then,  as 
Sir  Theodore  took  one  and  cut  it,  he  stared  into  the  box,  hesi- 
tated, and  said  slowly  with  a  half  smile: 

"  I  didn't  promise  I  wouldn't." 

"Wouldn't  what?" 

"  Smoke  two,  but " 

Sir  Theodore  made  a  dive  at  the  box,  took  out  a  cigar, 
clipped  it,  gave  it  to  Denzil,  lit  a  match. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  93 

"  Stick  it  into  your  mouth." 

Denzil,  with  a  pretense  of  reluctance,  as  if  overborne,  obeyed, 
Sir  Theodore  held  the  match  to  the  cigar,  then  sat  down  in  an 
armchair,  stretched  out  his  long  legs,  and  breathed  out  a  deep 
and  fervent  "Thank  God!"  And  in  silence  the  two  friends 
smoked. 

"  I  absolutely  need  this,"  Sir  Theodore  said  at  last. 

"  I  daresay  you  do,"  rejoined  Denzil. 

"  The  fact  is,  Francis,  that  when  a  man  gets  to  my  age,  if 
he  honestly  is  a  man,  society  can't  be  much  more  than  a  dis- 
traction to  him.  It  may  have  become  a  habit,  it  may  be  a 
duty " 

"  A  damned  diplomatic  duty,"  groaned  Denzil  from  his 
heart, 

"  Which  you  neglect,  my  son !  But  it  can  no  longer  be  an 
excitement,  or  a  pleasure  with  any  very  keen  edge.  Now,  if 
you  and  I  had  new  hats  to  display " 

"  Basta!    Basta!" 

They  joined  in  a  laugh. 

"  And  yet  I  hate  to  hurt  Doloretta's  feelings,"  Sir  Theodore 
said. 

He  was  grave  again. 

"Directly  I've  finished  this," — he  took  the  cigar  from  his 
mouth,  looked  at  it  with  affection,  then  put  it  between  his  lips 
once  more. 

"  Ed  sa3's  you  have  some  very  interesting  people." 

"Do  we?" 

"  That's  something  anyhow,"  remarked  Denzil. 

He  might  criticise  Dolores  gently  to  his  wife,  but  never  to 
her  husband. 

"  Then  why  don't  you  come  of tener  to  meet  them  ?  " 

*'  You  know  how  many  duty  dinners  one  has.  And  I  am 
a  bear.  I  can't  help  it.  The  worst  of  it  is  I  hate  sitting  up, 
and  never  want  the  spectators  to  pitch  me  a  bun.  So  even  as 
a  bear  I'm  a  failure." 

He  sent  up  a  ring  of  smoke  and  followed  it  with  his  eyes. 

"  Francis,  this  does  me  good,"  exclaimed  Sir  Theodore,  sit- 
ting lower  in  his  chair  and  stretching  out  his  legs  still  further. 
"  If  only  Doloretta  could  smoke  cigars!  Her  activity  has  be- 
come terrific  lately.  They  say  Rome  induces  languor.  That's 
one  of  the  many  lies." 

"  You're  active  enough  yourself." 

"  I  used  to  think  so.     Doloretta  has  shown  me  my  flaccid 


94  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

laziness.  She's  at  it  from  morning  till  night.  She  never  seems 
to  tire." 

"  Shows  she's  well,"  said  Denzil  laconically. 

Sir  Theodore  glanced  with  his  keen  bright  eyes  at  his 
friend.  There  was  a  reserve  between  them.  He  felt  it,  and 
at  this  moment  he  had  a  longing  to  be  unreserved.  Yet  he 
knew  well  how  honorable  a  mutual  reserve  can  be,  even  be- 
tween the  most  intimate  friends.  Some  one  has  said  that  his 
silences  make  the  great  gentleman.  Sir  Theodore  thought  of 
that  at  this  moment.     And  he  changed  the  conversation. 

"  I  don't  like  the  look  of  things  in  the  Balkans,"  he  said. 
"  D'you  remember  the  apergu  I  once  gave  you  of  Ferdinand's 
character?  " 

"  I  should  think  I  do.     It  showed  the  lining." 

"  I  believe  I  was  right.  Of  course  I  had  special  means  of 
judging  during  the  short  time  I  was  at  Sofia.  I  wonder  how 
they  are  going  to  handle  things  at  Vienna." 

The  sound  of  the  last  word  seemed  to  startle  him,  although 
he  had  spoken  it.  And  now  the  outburst  came.  In  this  mat- 
ter at  least  reserve  was  not  necessary.  He  must  have  the  re- 
lief of  frankness  in  some  direction. 

"  Francis,  what  a  fool,  what  a  damned  fool  I  was  to  get  out 
of  the  service!  "  he  exclaimed. 

"  You  were,"  Denzil  said  soberly. 

"  The  devil  enters  into  us  at  times.  That's  certain.  But 
that  all  my  training  should  go  for  nothing!  I  can  say  that  in 
my  career  I  never  made  a  gaffe " 

"  Wish  I  could ! "  muttered  Denzil,  thinking  of  Mrs. 
Slingsby. 

"  And  to  go  and  ruin  the  whole  thing  In  a  moment  of  tem- 
per. For  that  was  what  it  was.  I  lost  my  temper  and  threw 
the  whole  thing  away.  After  Stockholm  I  was  bound  to  get 
an  embassy.  I  ought  to  have  had  Vienna  of  course.  But 
still  —  we  human  wretches  act  instinctively  sometimes,  and 
the  instinct  may  chance  to  be  wrong.  But  never,  after  what 
I've  done  myself,  could  I  blame  the  poor  sinner  by  instinct 
who,  in  a  moment  of  madness,  call  i^  impulse  if  you  like,  puts 
the  rope  round  his  neck,  pulls  it,  and  pheugh !  " 

He  made  a  gesture.     Denzil  seemed  to  see  some  one  dangling. 

"  It  was  a  tremendous  mistake.  I  was  thinking  about  it 
to-day  just  before  you  came." 

"  Were  you?  A  strong  man  would  reconcile  himself,  I  sup- 
pose.    Of  course  he  would.     But  I  can't.     It  seems  I  am  a 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  95 

weakling;.     That's  not  a  pleasant  thought  for  a  man  either." 

He  allowed  a  profound  melancholy  to  appear  in  his  face. 

"  I've  never  thought  you  a  weak  man,"  said  Denzil  slowly. 

"  The  most  real  moral  strength,  however,  certainly  Is  to  be 
able  to  endure  without  grumbling  inevitable  catastrophe." 

"  You're  right.     You're  right." 

*'  I'm  thoroughly  ashamed  that  I  haven't  got  it,  and  that  I 
can't  get  it.  The  least  I  ought  to  do  is  to  pay  for  my  folly 
with  a  good  face." 

"  I  suppose  that  is  so.  One  doesn't  want  to  be  a  bad  loser," 
said  Denzil  very  quietly  and  impersonally. 

"You  wouldn't  be  that!"  his  friend  said,  with  a  strong 
conviction. 

"  Chi  lo  saf  " 

"  You  couldn't  be.     You  wouldn't  know  how." 

"  No  credit  to  me  then.  But  I  haven't  an  idea.  I  haven't 
been  tested.     I've  had  a  wonderful  run  of  luck." 

"  And  you  deserve  it,  and  Edna  deserves  it." 

"Ah,  she  does." 

"  I  treated  Doloretta  badly,  too,  by  resigning  without  a  word 
to  her.  Do  you  know,  Francis,  I  sometimes  think  all  this  al- 
most unnatural  energy  of  hers  comes  partly  from  disappoint- 
ment. She  may  have  been  secretly  much  more  ambitious  than 
I  ever  supposed.  She  would  have  made  a  perfect  ambassadress. 
Sometimes  I  think  —  it  may  be  absurd  —  that  she's  trying  tG 
play  the  role  this  winter  without  —  but  no,  she  wouldn't  do 
that.  And  yet,  really,  we  might  almost  be  in  an  embassy 
with  all  the  people  who  come  and  go.  But  it's  my  fault.  A 
woman  must  do  something.  She  can't  sit  forever  in  empty 
rooms.  And  if  we  go  out  we  must  return  civilities.  Besides, 
we've  taken  such  a  big  apartment.  I  often  wish  to  Heaven 
we  hadn't." 

He  gazed  gloomily  into  the  fire,  and  for  a  moment  there 
was  silence.     Then  looking  up  he  added : 

"  I'd  rather  be  here  a  thousand  times." 

"  My  dear  chap,  this  does  very  well  Indeed,  but  It's  a  hole 
in  comparison  with  your  glorious  rooms." 

"A  hole!  Well,  it's  a  homely  hole,"  said  Sir  Theodore, 
with  conviction. 

His  cigar  was  finished.  Reluctantly  he  moved  In  his  chair, 
putting  his  hands  on  Its  leather  arms. 

"  I  suppose  I  ought  to  go  now  and  give  Doloretta  a  helping 
hand  with  the  hats,  eh?  " 


96  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  suppose  so." 

Sir  Theodore  was  about  to  get  up  when  a  new  atmosphere 
invaded  the  flat  in  the  Via  Venti  Settembre.  Uneven  jumping, 
pattering  and  toddling  steps  were  heard,  and  small  high  voices 
raised  in  a  conversation  so  animated  that  a  misanthrope  might 
have  been  moved  to  misname  it  a  row.  Sir  Theodore  sprang 
up  with  quite  youthful  agility. 

"Hush,  Francis!     Don't  let  'em  know!"  he  whispered. 

And  moving  lightly  across  the  room  he  glided,  almost  melo- 
dramatically, behind  one  of  the  window  curtains,  just  as  there 
came  a  battering  of  little  fists  upon  the  door. 

Denzil,  who  had  snatched  up  a  book,  after  a  pause  replied: 

"Come  in!" 

But  there  was  no  immediate  entry.  Broken  whisperings, 
apparently  of  a  hortatory  nature,  took  the  place  of  the  former 
joyous  intercourse.  To  these  was  presently  added  a  peculiar 
sound  as  of  what  Denzil  called  "  scrabbling  " —  but  very  fur- 
tive scrabbling  —  upon  the  door.  Then  the  handle  moved 
slightly.  The  hortatory  whisperings  became  more  sibilant,  and 
were  replied  to  by  audible  breathings.  The  handle  was  mo- 
tionless; then  there  was  more  scrabbling,  it  moved  again,  shook, 
but  did  not  turn.  During  these  mysterious  processes  Denzil's 
usually  stony  face  had  become  strangely  expressive,  as  he  sat 
holding  his  book  upside  down  and  staring  towards  the  door. 
He  was  not  exactly  smiling,  but  a  soft  humanity  that  was  almost 
like  a  light,  illuminated,  changing,  his  features,  and  especially 
his  prominent  almost  bull-like  forehead.  The  effect  was  as 
if  the  soul  of  the  father  woke  and  set  love,  as  a  light  may  be 
set  in  a  window,  in  the  face  of  the  man. 

Suddenly  there  was  a  sliding  tattoo  as  of  booted  feet  on  the 
door,  followed  by  a  bump,  and  a  small  cry. 

Denzil  sprang  up  and  went  quickly  to  open  the  door,  while 
Sir  Theodore  stuck  an  anxious  head  out  from  behind  the  win- 
dow curtain. 

"  Now  then,  Vi,  it's  all  right !  You're  not  a  bit  hurt !  "  ex- 
claimed  Denzil. 

The  door  was  open.  Sir  Theodore  quickly  withdrew,  like 
a  man  in  a  farce,  and  a  group  of  three  small  children  was  re- 
vealed; one  on  its  face  and  almost  in  the  attitude  of  swim- 
ming, with  a  convulsive  back;  the  second,  a  boy  in  a  sailor 
suit,  bent  almost  double  in  the  eager  endeavor  to  reverse  the 
swimmer ;  the  third,  a  girl,  firmly  planted,  with  a  rosy  face  that 
looked  almost  stern,  staring  fixedly  at  the  other  two  in  a  ju- 
dicial attitude. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  97 

"  She  wanted  to  do  it  herself,  so  I  lifted  her.  Iris  helped," 
exclaimed  the  boy,  raising  a  flushed  face. 

"  I  helped,"  remarked  the  judicial  child,  as  if  giving  con- 
firmatory evidence. 

"  But  she  squirmed  too  much,"  added  the  boy. 

"  She  did  squirm,"  Iris  supplied. 

By  this  time  the  unfortunate  one  vi^as  right  side  up  in  her 
father's  arms,  revealing  an  extremely  small  and  pretty  oval 
face,  twisted  with  distress  and  outraged  importance,  and  red, 
except  for  the  tiny  nose,  from  which,  perhaps,  the  blood  had 
been  momentarily  driven  by  the  inflexible  resistance  to  it  of  the 
floor.  This  tiny  nose  was  unnaturally  white.  The  sight  of  it 
roused  all  Denzil's  tenderness.  He  did  not  know  Viola  was 
his  pet,  but  nevertheless  she  was.  And  now  he  kissed  the 
poor  nose  as  he  bore  its  owner  to  the  armchair. 

"It's  all  right,  Vi.  Look!  Here's  Augustus  been  sitting 
beside  me  all  this  time  watching  the  door." 

He  lifted  the  gollywog  from  its  angle,  and  placed  it  in  the 
maternal  arms  which  mechanically  opened  to  receive  it. 

"  He  is  pleased  you've  come  back  and  nearly  opened  the  door 
yourself." 

Viola  looked  at  the  gollywog.  Her  small  face  was  still 
working,  but  already  the  nose  was  resuming  its  natural  com- 
plexion, and  a  certain  inquiry  appeared  in  her  eyes.  It  was 
obvious  that  her  mind  was  beginning  to  occupy  itself  with  the 
sensations  of  Augustus. 

"  Is  he  pleased  ?  "  she  lisped. 

"Of  course  he  is!"  said  small  Theo,  who  was  planted  on 
the  hearthrug,  his  mobile  face  as  eloquently  expressive  of  anx- 
iety for  his  little  sister's  condition  as  if  he  were  assisting  at  the 
crisis  of  some  dangerous  illness.     "  Look  how  he's  smiling!  " 

His  thick  dark  hair  fell  over  his  forehead  as  he  bent  down 
and  turned  upwards  the  face  of  Augustus,  which  certainly  wore 
a  grotesque  smile. 

"  He's  almost  laughing." 

"  Is  he?  "  murmured  Viola,  looking  sideways  at  her  brother, 
and  then  very  earnestly  at  her  father. 

"  Yes,"   pronounced   Iris. 

"  Yes,  Vi,"  added  Denzil  firmly. 

The  matter  was  settled,  and  suddenly  with  a  gesture  and 
look  of  coaxing  abnegation,  such  as  only  a  little  child  Is  capable 
of,  Viola  hid  her  face  against  Denzil's  shoulder  as  if  to  con- 
ceal the  naughty  fact  that  she  was  becoming  quite  happy  again. 

All   this   Sir  Theodore  watched    from   behind    the   curtain. 


98  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Denzil  had  forgotten  about  him.  He  could  see  that.  How 
natural  that  was !  how  your  children  must  teach  you  to  forget ! 
When  the  little  Viola  hid  her  face,  that  was  beginning  to  smile, 
against  her  father,  Sir  Theodore  felt  a  sensation  of  yearning 
that  was  like  a  surgeon's  knife  exploring  both  body  and  soul. 
Why,  why  could  he  not  have  Denzil's  joy?  Was  he  never  to 
possess  the  only  gift  he  really  longed  for? 

At  this  moment,  for  the  first  time,  he  contemplated  the  pos- 
sibility of  being  unfaithful  to  Dolores. 

Conversation  of  a  highly  animated  kind  was  now  joined  upon 
the  hearthrug.  The  fact  of  Augustus's  pleasure  had  appar- 
ently been  fully  established  to  the  satisfaction  of  Viola,  who 
saw  in  that  remarkable  smile  new  meanings  all  of  a  nature 
complimentary  to  herself.  She  felt  herself  a  source  of  pleasure, 
even  of  exultant  admiration.  And  forgetting  with  the  facility 
of  extreme  youth  that  she  had  failed  to  open  the  door,  she 
began  to  revel,  with  Augustus,  in  the  fact  that  she  had  nearly 
succeeded  in  opening  it.  "  I  couldn't  open  the  door "  was 
turned  into  "  I  nearly  opened  the  door  myself !  "  and  all  was 
well. 

"  But  why  are  you  so  late  home,  brats?  Isn't  it  past  your 
time  for  ♦•ea?"  exclaimed  Denzil  at  length. 

"  Marianna  allowed  us  to  go  home  for  a  little  with  Boris 
and  Anutschka,"  explained  Theo.     "  They  was  on  the  Pincio." 

"  Were  on  the  Pincio," 

"  Were," —  he  corrected  himself  with  great  earnestness, 

"  Did  you  have  tea  with  them  ?  " 

"  No,  and  we  are  hungry  now." 

"  I  want  to  eat,"  said  Iris  weightily. 

She  paused,  seemed  to  reflect,  and  added  firmly: 

"  I  want  to  drink,  too." 

"I  wants  to  dwink!"  came  a  little  gentle  voice  from  Den- 
zil's waistcoat. 

"  Come  along!     I'll  come  and  have  tea  with  you." 

Denzil  got  up  with  Viola  in  his  arms,  and  suddenly  recol- 
lected old  Theo  behind  the  curtain. 

"  By  Jove!  "  he  exclaimed,  pausing. 

"What's  it?"  cried  little  Theo. 

He  was  as  sharp  as  a  needle.  Now  he  cast  a  quick  glance 
round,  following  his  father's  eyes. 

"There's  a  bulge!  I  see  a  bulge!"  he  cried  out.  "It's 
Uncle  Theo!" 

He  darted  at  the  curtain,  and  laid  hold  of  the  bulge  with 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  99 

ardent  hands.  The  bulge  set  up  a  powerful  bass  shout.  Little 
Theo  shrieked,  little  Viola  shrieked;  even  Iris,  like  a  judge, 
left  the  Bench  and  condescended  to  a  joyous  surprised  squeal. 

"Come  out,  Uncle  Theo!  Come  out!"  yelled  little  Theo, 
always  going  for  the  bulge,  which  writhed  as  if  in  agony  under 
his  imperative  hands.  "  Look,  Iris,  look,  Vi,  how  I'm  makin' 
Uncle  Theo  squirm!" 

Denzil  shook  with  laughter,  and  Viola  opened  her  mouth, 
and  held  it  wide  open,  while  her  ej^es  almost  fell  out  of  her 
head  as  they  watched  these  truly  Olympic  games. 

With  a  roar  Sir  Theodore  burst  from  behind  the  curtain. 
The  children  fled  screaming  with  laughter.  He  pursued  them, 
caught  them,  held  them  fast.  The  music  and  the  hats  in  the 
Barberini  Palace  were  forgotten.  A  joyous  procession  marched 
in  strict  time  down  the  passage  to  tea  in  the  nursery  with 
Marianna. 


CHAPTER  VIII 

Early  in  the  New  Year,  when  the  "  season  "  of  Rome  was 
about  to  set  in,  Dolores  heard  a  rumor  that  startled  her  from 
the  lips  of  Princess  Mancelli. 

Dolores  and  the  Princess  had  till  now  never  been  anything 
more  to  each  other  than  slight  acquaintances,  not  specially  in- 
terested in  each  other,  and  meeting  only  in  the  hunting  field 
and  in  general  society.  But  with  this  New  Year  had  come 
reasons  why  their  relations  must  be  changed.  Now  to  the 
Princess  Dolores  offered  a  problem  that  had  to  be  studied  and 
disposed  of.  And  to  Dolores  the  Princess  appeared  in  an  at- 
mosphere of  passion  and  sorrow,  wicked  no  doubt,  and  even 
humiliating,  but  nevertheless  arresting. 

The  Princess's  call  to  pride  had  been  successful,  and  only 
two  persons  had  witnessed  something  of  the  bitter  truth  of  her 
nature;  of  her  outraged  vanity  of  a  fascinating  woman,  her 
despair  of  a  loving  woman,  her  restless  and  gnawing  misery  of 
a  sensual  woman.  These  two  persons  were  men.  One  was 
Cesare '  Carelli,  the  other  Montebruno.  To  the  rest  of  the 
world  the  Princess  was  an  enigma.  People  of  course  made 
statements,  circulated  rumors,  and  told  downright  lies  about 
her  and  her  feelings.  But  if  divinatory  they  were  uninformed, 
and  their  strenuous  efforts  to  arrive  at  truth  by  rushing  along 
the  pathway  of  falsehood  availed  them  nothing.     The  Princess 


lOO  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

was  far  too  clever,  or  too  indifferent  to  deny.  She  went  about 
as  usual,  or  perhaps  even  more  than  she  usually  did,  and  did  not 
forget  one  of  her  normal  occupations.  And  her  piercing  eyes 
were  forever  on  the  watch.  She  meant  to  find  out  for  herself 
whether  there  was  any  truth  in  what  Montebruno  had  said. 
She  had  told  herself  that  it  was  not  true,  and  when  she  had 
done  so  she  had  not  been  trying  to  throw  dust  in  her  own  eyes. 
But  a  jealous  woman  may  deny  that  a  thing  is  a  hundred 
times  without  ceasing  to  watch  for  it,  may  say  that  she  be- 
lieves In  another  woman  even  to  herself  without  ceasing  se- 
cretly to  distrust  her. 

The  fact  that  Montebruno  had  asserted  that  Cesare  was  at- 
tracted by  Dolores  Cannynge  had  made  Dolores  new  to  Prin- 
cess Mancelli.  Hitherto  Dolores  had  been  one  of  the  crowd 
of  forestieri  that  invaded  Rome  in  the  winter,  to  make  it 
gay  and  banal,  "  like  a  second-rate  watering-place,"  as  the 
Princess  sometimes  almost  bitterly  said  to  her  Roman  inti- 
mates. Now  Dolores  stood  out  from  the  crowd.  And  the 
Princess  felt  impelled  to  draw  nearer  to  her. 

One  or  two  recent  circumstances  had  made  Princess  Man- 
cell!  uneasy.  The  hunting  season  had  provided  a  great  sur- 
prise for  Rome.  It  was  announced  in  La  Tribuna  that 
Cesare  Carelli  had  sold  his  hunters  and  would  not  be  seen  in 
the  field.  As  he  always  hunted  both  with  the  foxhounds  and 
with  Marchese  Casati's  staghounds,  and  as  hunting  was  noto- 
riously principal  pleasure,  his  friends  had  some  reason  to  be 
astonished.  But  very  soon  the  cause  of  his  defection  was 
rumored.  He  had  been  Princess  Mancelli's  "  lead,"  and  since 
the  change  in  their  relations  he  did  not  care  to  be  in  her  com- 
pany. She  stuck  to  her  hunting,  so  he  gave  up  his.  It  was 
very  simple. 

To  the  Princess's  subtle  mind  it  seemed  almost  too  simple. 
She  knew  Cesare's  passion  for  hunting,  a  passion  with  two 
strains  in  it,  man's  normal  and  brutal  joy  in  the  chase,  and  a 
Roman's  adoration  of  his  campagna.  There  was  romance  in 
Cesare's  hunting.  Had  she  not  shared  it  once?  It  was  in 
the  field  that  she  had  first  fallen  in  love  with  the  handsome 
boy  whose  fate  she  had  ruthlessly  grasped  with  her  experi- 
enced hands.  No  one  in  Rome  knew,  as  she  knew,  what  the 
resignation  of  this  pleasure  must  mean  to  Cesare. 

Lady  Cannynge  had  given  up  hunting  also.  Montebruno 
had  assured  the  Princess  that  Cesare  had  intended  to  hunt,  and 
had  repeated  to  her  the  conversation  at  the  Countess  Boccara's 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  loi 

dinner,  when  Dolores  announced  that  she  would  not  go  out 
with  the  hounds  that  winter.  Cesare's  decision,  he  said,  must 
have  been  prompted  by  Lady  Cannynge's.  Although  he  had 
been  explaining  a  gambling  system  to  the  little  Boccara  it 
seemed  he  had  missed  little  of  Cesare's  talk  with  his  companion. 
Princess  Mancelli  began  to  wonder  whether  Lady  Cannynge 
was  a  cleverer  woman  than  she  had  supposed,  whether  beneath 
the  mask  of  wistful  sincerity  was  concealed  an  aptitude  for 
subterranean  intrigue. 

Although  Princess  Mancelli  'was  more  brilliant,  and  far 
more  subtle,  than  Cesare,  she  shared  most  of  his  Italian  preju- 
dices, and  even  more  markedly  than  he  had  the  Italian  point 
of  view.  When  she  became  interested  in  Lady  Cannynge  she 
began  to  examine,  as  much  as  she  could,  into  the  state  of  things 
in  the  Cannynge  menage.  And  she  very  soon  knew  of  Sir 
Theodore's  perpetual  visits  to  the  Denzils.  On  these  visits 
she  put  exactly  the  same  construction  as  did  Cesare.  She  won- 
dered very  much  what  Lady  Cannynge  thought  of  them,  and 
longed  to  find  out.  If,  as  she  believed.  Lady  Cannynge  loved 
her  husband,  she  must  be  suffering  keenly.  But  possibly  the 
Cannynge  menage  was  one  of  those  cynical  unions,  common 
enough  in  certain  circles  of  society,  in  which  the  only  real  link 
is  a  mutual  hypocrisy  designed  to  deceive  the  world.  Possibly 
Lady  Cannynge,  like  Sir  Theodore,  had  her  "  little  distrac- 
tions." 

Then  the  Princess's  mind  went  to  Cesare,  and  she  was  as- 
sailed by  doubts. 

About  this  time  fate  put  into  her  possession  a  means  of  ap- 
plying a  test  to  Dolores.  At  the  British  Embassy  she  chanced 
to  overhear  Francis  Denzil  make  this  remark  in  a  low  voice  to 
his  wife:  "  I  wonder  if  Munich  has  a  climate  that  is  good  for 
young  children."  Mrs.  Denzil  merely  looked  at  her  husband 
with  raised  eyebrows,  and  Princess  Mancelli  spoke  to  Here- 
ward  Arnold  about  hunting.  Early  the  next  morning  she  sent 
Dolores  a  note  asking  her  to  come  in  that  afternoon  to  meet  a 
few  people  en  intimite.  And  then  she  forgot  to  invite  the  few 
people. 

The  Princess  lived  in  the  Palazzo  Urbino  on  Monte  Savello, 
not  far  frcm  the  ancient  Ghetto  of  Rome.  To  reach  it  Dolo- 
res had  to  drive  through  a  section  of  the  old  and  mj-sterious 
part  of  the  city.     She  had  of  course  often  done  this  before. 

Nevertheless,  on  this  occasion  —  she  did  not  know  why  — 
she  seemed  to  be  aware  of  old  Rome  as  she  had  never  yet  been 


102  'IHE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

aware  of  it,  to  be  struck  by  it  with  a  sad  force,  to  drav/  the 
impression  of  it  into  her  very  soul. 

It  was  rather  late  in  the  day  when  she  left  the  Barberini 
Palace  in  an  open  victoria.  All  day  there  had  been  scirocco, 
and  it  still  persisted.  The  sickly  wind  that  blew  through  the 
streets  had  not  fallen  with  the  approach  of  evening.  The  fad- 
ing away  of  the  light  made  the  warmth  that  prevailed  through 
the  city  seem  more  than  ever  unnatural  in  this  season  of 
winter.  Dolores  loved  heat,  but  this  heat  repelled,  almost 
frightened  her.  She  had  known  tin's  sensation  akin  to  fear 
more  than  once  on  winter  days  of  scirocco.  Almost  imme- 
diately after  she  had  started  she  began  to  wish  that  instead  of 
driving  in  an  open  carriage  she  had  shut  herself  up  in  the 
motor.  But  she  had  wanted  to  get  some  air.  She  had  imag- 
ined it  would  refresh  her.     That  was  a  mistake. 

How  sad  Rome  seemed  to  her  just  then,  mysteriously  sad! 
People  were  filling  the  streets,  as  they  always  do  towards 
evening.  The  pavements  were  thronged  with  pedestrians.  At 
every  moment  the  horns  of  motors  sounded.  By  the  Via  Tri- 
tone  the  carriage  descended  into  the  Corso  Umberto  Primo 
and  followed  it  for  some  distance.  Here  the  crowd  was  im- 
mense, and  the  lines  of  carriages  and  motors  could  only  move 
on  slowly.  Now  and  then  in  some  spacious  car  Dolores  caught 
sight  of  a  face  she  knew,  of  gazing  eyes,  a  smart  hat,  a  bunch 
of  carnations  or  lilac;  beauty  in  her  moving  and  scented  room 
watching  to  see  whether  she  was  being  watched.  The  men  on 
the  pavements  stared  and  made  their  comments.  Tourists  and 
citizens  pushed  their  way  towards  the  Caffe  Aragno  which  many 
Italians  use  almiost  as  a  club.  Young  giris  promenaded  with 
their  mothers,  looking  modestly  down,  yet  not  altogether  un- 
happily conscious  that  they  were  being  closely  and  constantly 
regarded  by  the  many  students  who  passed  slowly  by,  and  by 
the  old  and  the  youthful  flaneurs  who  never  miss  their  even- 
ing Corso.  Boys  cried  papers,  and  here  and  there  old  seated 
women,  with  wrinkled  and  apathetic  faces,  sold  them.  And 
over  and  through  all  this  crowd,  up  the  narrow  and  famous 
street  with  its  tall  houses  and  ancient  palaces,  its  brilliantly 
lighted  shops,  its  restaurants  and  cafes,  the  warm  and  un- 
natural wind  went  gustily,  intrusive  and  depressing.  Never 
had  any  panorama  of  humanity,  moving  amid  lights  and  the 
sounds  of  traffic,  seemed  so  artificial  to  Dolores  as  did  the 
panorama  of  the  Corso  that  evening.  But  presently  the  car- 
riage turned  aside,  and   for  a  brief  space  traversed  another 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  103 

world,  old,  dark,  mysterious  and  sad  on  this  windy  evening,  but 
sad  with  a  dignity,  a  romance,  that  demanded  reverence  rather 
than  pity.  Very  brief  was  this  glimpse  of  old  Rome  which 
Dolores  had.  It  was  almost  as  if,  in  passing  through  a  room, 
she  glanced  at  two  or  three  wonderful  etchings.  A  corner  of 
a  dark  palace  towering  towards  the  sky  where  the  night  was 
unfolding  her  dusky  garments  and  trailing  them  over  the  world; 
huge  barred  windows;  an  immense  arch  gaping  to  show  the 
shadows  of  a  court-j^ard,  with  faint  silhouettes  of  growing 
things;  a  splash  of  yellow  light  from  a  porter's  lodge  falling 
on  a  spray  of  water;  more  barred  windows  and  towering  blocks 
of  stone;  a  church  with  a  sleeping  beggar  huddled  on  its  de- 
serted steps;  gaunt  houses  of  poor  people  with  fiat  facades 
stained  with  innumerable  shades  of  yellow,  orange,  browns, 
grays;  an  antiquity  shop  with  dusky  draperies  pinned  and  nailed 
at  the  jambs  of  its  doors,  scraps  of  pottery  showing  strange 
pallors,  a  bronze  faun  dancing  in  semi-darkness.  And  the  warm 
and  gusty  wind  penetrated  everywhere,  and  the  dull  roll  of 
traffic  on  uneven  pavements,  and  the  cries  of  humanity,  sounded 
always.  By  the  light  of  a  guttering  candle  Dolores  saw  the 
keeper  of  the  antiquity  shop  bending  and  speaking  to  a  woman 
wrapped  in  a  shawl.  Their  colloquy  seemed  mysterious,  al- 
miost  terrible.  They  moved  and  vanished  among  dim  shapes 
cf  furniture  and  hanging  antique  lamps. 

The  carriage  turned  into  the  Via  di  Monte  Savello  out  of  a 
sort  of  market-place,  now  empty,  and  suddenly  the  wheels  were 
crunching  on  gravel,  and  the  sound  of  a  fountain  for  an  instant 
saluted,  then  died  away  from  the  ears  of  Dolores.  Trees  were 
around  her  instead  of  houses.  She  had  passed  unexpectedly 
into  one  of  the  small  but  aristocratic  gardens  of  Rome.  As 
the  carriage  drew  up  under  a  colonnade  she  heard  the  creaking 
of  a  palm  in  the  wind.  She  shivered.  And  it  seemed  to  her 
as  if  it  was  the  sad  warmth  which  made  her  shiver.  In  imag- 
ination she  still  savv^  the  antiquary  and  the  woman  wrapped  in 
a  shawl  vanishing  among  the  half-seen  furniture  and  the  an- 
tique hanging  lamps,  going  into  dusty  darkness.  Would  they 
ever  return,  see  the  sun  ?  They  seemed  to  her  symbolic  sliapes, 
horribly  expressive,  horribly  suggestive  of  the  fates  of  the  many 
who  go  down  into  blackness. 

How  absurd  she  was  this  evening!  The  sadness  of  Rome 
obsessed  her. 

There  was  no  porter.  The  footman  got  down  and  rang  a 
bell  on  the  left  of  the  entrance,  where  there  was  a  door  stained 


104  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

black.  After  a  long  pause  he  rang  a  second  time.  Two  or 
three  minutes  passed;  then  the  door  was  slightly  opened,  and 
the  lined  dark  face  of  a  very  sad  and  distinguished  looking  old 
gentleman  appeared,  lit  up  by  the  ray  from  a  candle.  The 
footman  asked  for  the  Principessa  Mancelli. 

"  She  lives  on  the  first  floor,"  said  the  old  gentleman,  in  a 
hollow  voice.     "  This  is  Prince  Urbino's  apartment." 

He  closed  the  door.     It  was  the  Prince  himself. 

As  Dolores  mounted  the  broad  flight  of  stone  steps  which 
led  to  the  first  floor  of  the  palace  she  longed  to  be  among  peo- 
ple in  brilliantly  lighted  rooms,  and  when  the  maestro  di  casa 
showed  her  in  she  listened  expectantly  for  the  murmur  of 
voices.  But  she  heard  no  sound  as  she  walked  forward  through 
drawing-room  after  drawing-room,  till  she  came  into  a  smaller 
boudoir,  with  a  splendid  antique  blue  and  gold  ceiling.  Here 
tea  was  laid.     But  there  was  no  one. 

She  was  surprised,  and  wondered  If  she  had  mistaken  the 
day  as  she  sat  down  on  a  sofa  to  wait. 

The  room  was  skillfully  broken  up,  and  very  handsomely 
furnished.  It  was  not  cozy  in  the  English  sense,  but  for  the 
room  of  an  Italian  it  was  very  comfortable,  and  even  suggested 
a  woman  who  was  fond  of  luxury.  The  colors  in  it  were  dim 
and  soft,  deep  reds  and  warm  red-browns.  There  was  a  great 
deal  of  very  dark  wood,  that  seemed  to  hold  a  wonderful  bloom 
of  hoary  age.  There  were  high  bureau-like  writing-tables, 
piled  with  photographs  and  books.  Heavy  vases  of  Oriental 
china  were  lifted  up  on  stands  shaped  like  columns.  The  sofas 
were  deep  and  low,  with  immense  cushions  scattered  over  them. 
Some  of  the  chairs  were  tall,  with  arms  made  of  straps  of  mag- 
nificent old  leather  attached  to  uprights  of  oak  carved  with  the 
heads  of  lions.  Electric  lights  were  concealed  in  torch-like 
contrivances  of  finely  wrought  but  heavy  ironwork.  Nearly 
everything  in  the  room  w^as  on  a  rather  large  scale.  There 
were  corners,  half  hidden  by  damask  screens,  into  which  people 
might  retire  and  be  lost  in  a  warm  dimness. 

A  door,  concealed  by  a  red  hanging,  opened  and  the  Princess 
came  towards  Dolores,  holding  out  her  hands  in  greeting.  She 
had  a  magnificent  carriage,  a  magnificent,  yet  quite  simple,  way 
of  walking,  such  as  is  still  characteristic  of  high-bred  Roman 
ladies,  and  is  inimitable.  It  is  a  movement  which  looks  al- 
most imperial,  yet  not  trampling  or  arrogant. 

''  Ben  venuta!  "  she  said,  with  a  delightfully  warm  and  un- 
studied cordiality. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  105 

"Then  you  did  expect  me!  I  was  afraid  for  a  moment  I 
had  mistaken  the  day." 

"  Because  there  is  as  yet  no  one?  " 

The  Princess  sat  down  in  front  of  the  tea-table. 

"  Benedetto!  "  she  called. 

The  old  maestro  di  casa  reappeared,  and  the  Princess 
speaking  to  him  with  familiarity,  almost  as  to  a  friend  of  years 
with  whom  no  ceremony  was  necessary,  asked  him  to  alter  the 
lighting  of  the  room.  As  he  went  about  from  one  tall  torch 
to  another,  turning  lights  off  and  on,  he  spoke  to  the  Princess 
in  Italian  and  she  replied 

"  Bene  cost,"  she  said  at  last. 

The  old  man  —  he  looked  like  an  old  gentleman  —  went 
away  through  the  vista  of  empty  drawing-rooms,  satisfied  ap- 
parently that  he  would  not  be  wanted  again,  and  the  Princess 
poured  out  tea. 

"  We  h^-e  had  bad  luck  to-day,"  she  said.  "  I  only  asked 
three  or  four,  and  they  couldn't  come.  The  beautiful  Ve- 
rona   " 

"Oh,  how  I  admire  her!"  said  Dolores.  "To  me  she  al- 
most incarnates  Rome." 

"How  much  more  to  us  Romans!  She  had  gone  to  Cis- 
terna  for  the  night.  Maria  Carpacci  is  playing  bridge  at  the 
Austrian  Embass5%  But  one  or  two  men  will  drop  in  pres- 
ently. Meanwhile  I  cannot  be  sorry.  V/hen  do  I  get  a  little 
talk  with  you  ?  —  a  real  talk,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  Very  seldom,"  said   Dolores. 

She  felt  a  sudden  slight  thrill  of  something  that  was  almost 
suspicious,  and  wondered  whether  the  Princess  had  really  in- 
vited any  one  to  meet  her. 

"  In  Rome  one  seldom  gets  much  beyond  acquaintanceship," 
she  added.     "  Unless  one  plays  bridge." 

"^Why  don't  you  play?" 

"  I  can,  of  course.     But  I  don't  care  much  about  it." 

"  No?     I  play  a  great  deal.     Bridge  has  one  supreme  merit." 

"What  is  that?'' 

"  It  takes  possession  of  the  mind.  While  one  is  playing  one 
is  absorbed  and  can  think  of  nothing  else." 

Dolores  looked  at  the  Princess  in  silence.  For  a  moment 
the  latter  had  surely  been  oft  her  guard,  and  had  spoken  out 
of  her  heart.  Perhaps  she  realized  this  for  she  added,  rather 
quickly: 

"  It  obliges  one  to  collect  the  wandering  thoughts,  to  con- 


io6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

centrate.  And  without  concentration  we  can  do  nothing  worth 
doing,  be  nothing  worth  being.     Isn't  it  so?  " 

"  I  daresay  it  is.  But  I  think  lots  of  people  are  concentrated 
on  things  that  are  very  absurd." 

The  Princess  smiled,  rather  cynically. 

"Of  course  they  are,  poor  things!  Your  friend  the  little 
Boccara,  for  instance,  thinks  only  of  her  waist.  Still,  one 
must  say  that  she  achieves  her  object.  She  has  the  smallest 
waist  in  Rome.     And  what  more  can  any  woman  want?" 

"Do  you  despise  women?" 

"  I !  But  I  am  a  woman !  Would  you  have  me  despise 
myself?" 

"  I  think  a  good  many  of  us " 

Dolores  stopped. 

"  You  are  quite  right,  and  I  agree  with  you,"  said  the  Prin- 
cess, laughing. 

Dolores  laughed  too,  but  without  any  genuine  mirth. 

"  I  do  not  apologize,"  she  said.  "  I  feel  with  you  It  is  un- 
necessary. Let  us  hope  men  are  as  secretly  modest  in  regard 
to  themselves  as  you  and  I  seem  to  be." 

"  They  are  not,  believe  me." 

Sitting  alone  with  this  Roman  lady  Dolores  felt  almost  like 
a  child,  and  oddly  Inexperienced.  She  was  conscious  of  being 
In  an  atmosphere  of  power.  Beneath  the  apparently  uncon- 
scious cordiality  of  the  Princess  she  divined  subtlety,  and  some- 
thing else,  that  she  surely  did  not  possess.  She  could  not  per- 
haps have  said  exactly  what  it  was,  but  she  knew  it  was  some- 
thing strong,  vital  and  not  cold.  She  felt  both  .attracted  by, 
and  repelled  by,  this  woman;  keenly  Interested  in  her  and  yet 
unwilling  to  draw  very  near  to  her.  All  the  time  that  she  sat 
with  the  Princess  Cesare  Carelli  hovered,  like  a  shade,  on  the 
threshold  of  her  mind.  She  disliked  thinking  of  Cesare  while 
she  was  with  the  Princess.  As  she  was  not  at  all  prurient- 
minded  such  a  thought,  which  was  a  link,  distressed  her  In- 
terior purity.  Yet  she  could  not  banish  It,  and  she  felt  as  If 
the  Princess  must  be  aware  of  It. 

And  while  Dolores  was  mentally  linking  the  Princess  with 
Cesare  the  Princess  was  mentally  linking  him  with  her  visitor. 
Could  what  Montebruno  had  said  be  true?  Now  that  she  was 
Isolated  with  Lady  Cannynge  the  Princess  felt  almost  sternly 
conscious  of  the  power  of  her  own  nature.  This  gentle  woman 
was  certainly  not  wax.  The  firmly  closed  lips  showed  that. 
But  neither  was  she  granite.     And  was  not  she,  Lisetta  Man- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  107 

celll,  granite?  Yet  perhaps  that  very  softness  might  draw  a 
man  away!  She  could  seem  soft,  could  be  passionately  tender, 
yielding  with  the  almost  desperate  abandon  great  natures  de- 
velop in  love.  But  she  was  conscious  that  she  had  within  her 
much  of  the  strong  fiber  of  the  ruler.  The  woman  facing  her 
was  surely  born  to  yield,  and  to  be  cherished,  sheltered,  per- 
haps worshiped  by  strength. 

As  these  thoughts  slipped  through  the  Princess's  mind  she 
was  invaded  by  a  cold  sensation  of  impotence. 

If  only  she  knew  whether  Montebruno  had  got  at  the  truth, 
or  a  part  of  the  truth! 

"  And  we  do  not  want  them  to  be  modest.  The  modest 
man  is  the  last  man  to  triumph  over  a  woman.  And  we  long 
to  be  triumphed  over,"  she  said. 

''Do  you?" 

As  the  Princess  considered  the  softness  of  Dolores  so  Dolo- 
res considered  the  seductive  energy  so  apparent  in  her  hostess. 
And  she  found  it  difficult  to  Imagine  the  greatest  failure  in  life 
emerging  in  withered  blackness  from  such  a  soil. 

"Why  not?"  asked  the  Princess. 

"  Somehow  I  cannot  Imagine  any  one,  or  anything,  triumph- 
ing over  you,"  said  Dolores,  slowly  and  apparently  with  great 
sincerity. 

"  That  is  a  compliment  which  I  appreciate.  But  Is  it  al- 
wa^'^s  wise  to  judge  by  the  physique?  " 

"But  was  I  doing  that?" 

"  Weren't  you  ?  " 

As  she  spoke  the  Princess  leaned  slowly  forward  on  the  sofa 
towards  the  tea-table.  The  maestro  di  casa  had  manipulated 
the  lights  until  no  strong  ray  fell  upon  his  mistress,  as  she  was 
placed  while  he  was  in  the  room. 

Now,  however,  she  deliberately  entered  the  circle  of  radi- 
ance that  was  produced  by  a  lamp  on  the  left  of  Dolores; 
moved,  perhaps,  by  an  impulse  not  free  from  morbidity. 

"  I  think  you  were,"  she  added. 

Both  these  women  were  secretly  being  prompted  by  a  com- 
mon desire,  and  both  were  being  kept  back  from  any  open 
attempt  at  its  gratification  by  a  furtively  warning  voice.  Nov/ 
Dolores  looked  at  her  hostess  for  a  moment  in  silence,  and  as 
she  looked,  in  despite  of  herself,  she  thought  with  intensity  cf 
that  rumored  past  which  Cesare  Carelll  had  shared. 

"  Have  I  judged  wrongly  then,"  she  said  at  last. 

"Why  not?     I  am  the  Roman  type.     And  that  type  often 


io8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

looks  more  conquering  than  it  is.  The  great  days  of  Rome 
are  long  past  you  mu?t  remember." 

"And  the  Risar^imentof" 

The  face  of  the  Princess  softened  strangely.  Her  eyes  lost 
their  piercing  quality,  and  for  a  moment  regarded  Dolores 
with  almost  a  melting  look.  Then  the  sweetness  died  out  of 
them,  and  she  answered : 

"  Do  you  believe  in  Resurrection?  I  don't  know  that  I  do. 
But  I'm  quite  sure  that  nothing  rises  again  exactly  as  it  for- 
merly was.     And  as  to  the  new  Rome  —  well !  " 

She  leaned  back,  spreading  out  her  exquisite  hands  In  a  ges- 
ture that  seemed  to  ward  otf  from  her  something  that  sought 
to  approach.  And  Dolores  had  the  feeling  that  as  she  with- 
drew her  face  at  that  moment  from  the  circle  of  light,  so  she 
withdrew  her  real  self,  retiring  into  the  darkness.  From  out 
of  this  darkness  she  said: 

"  We  were  talking  of  bridge  just  now.  I  was  playing  last 
night  at  the  British  Embassy  and  heard  a  good  deal  of  em- 
bassy gossip." 

"Did  you?     Anything  amusing?  " 

The  voice  of  Dolores  suddenly  sounded  almost  sharply  alert. 

"  It  seems  young  Myles-Anson  is  desperately  in  love  with 
Mrs.  Tooms,  the  American  widow  beloved  of  Count  Boccara." 

"Poor  boy!" 

The  alertness  was  gone  from  the  voice. 

"  He  even  takes  the  youngest  child  out  roller-skating  while 
the  mamma  is  at  the  Excelsior  gazing  —  well,  not  into  space. 
No  Italian  would  do  that." 

"  Do  you  admire  or  condemn  such  a  proof  of  affection?  " 

"  Frankly  I  don't  admire  it  at  all.  I  think  it  servile  in  a 
man." 

"  A  boy." 

"  At  twenty-three!     Our  boys  are  men  long  before  that  age." 

She  said  this  with  a  strong  decisiveness,  as  if  almost  de- 
fiantly stating  a  fact  that  cannot  be  controverted,  but  that 
may  not  be  readily  accepted. 

"  By  the  way,  I  met  that  good  domesticated  Denzil  at  the 
Embassy,"  she  added.  "  How  delightfully  English  he  is!  You 
don't  mind  my  saying  that  ?  " 

"  Of  course  not.     Yes,  Francis  Denzil  is  very  English." 

"  I  should  think  he  might  be  very  much  liked  by  South 
Germans." 

"By  South  Germans?" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  109 

"  On  account  of  his  directness  and  simplicity  of  manner." 

"  I  daresaj\  -But  I  don't  quite  see  what  South  Germans 
have  to  do  with  the  question  of  Tvlr,  Denzil's  character." 

"  I  mean  if  he  goes  to  Munich." 

"To  Munich!     Mr.  Denzil!" 

There  was  a  startled  sound  in  the  voice  of  Dolores. 

"  Mr.  Denzil  is  going  to  Munich?  " 

Princess  Mancelli  seemed  to  hesitate.  She  put  out  her  hand 
and  moved  the  china  in  front  of  her,  looking  down.  Then 
she  said : 

"  I'm  afraid  I've  behaved  as  they  say  Mr.  Denzil  does  some- 
times.    I'm  afraid  I've  made  a  gaffe." 

Dolores  had  had  time  to  regain  the  outward  self-control 
which  she  felt  she  had  lost  for  a  moment.  She  was  frightened 
by  the  violent  shock  of  joy  which  the  unexpected  words  of  her 
hostess  had  given  her.  She  felt  almost  as  if  she  had  just  been 
stabbed  by  joy,  and  longed  to  put  out  her  hand  to  her  breast 
as  if  to  cover  a  wound.  But  she  succeeded  in  looking  and 
seeming  quite  calm,  perhaps  almost  exaggeratedly  calm,  as  she 
said,  not  without  languor: 

"A  gaffe?  But  why?  Rumors  of  this  sort  are  always 
floating  about  Rome." 

"You  had  heard  nothing  of  it?" 

"  Nothing  at  all.     I  don't  think  it  can  be  true." 

"Why  not?" 

"  If  it  were  I  think  I  must  have  heard  of  it." 

"  Perhaps  it  is  a  diplomatic  secret." 

Dolores  wondered  very  much  from  whom  the  Princess  had 
heard  it,  but  she  did  not  choose  to  ask. 

"  Is  Mr.  Denzil  to  be  made  a  minister  then?  "  she  said.  "  At 
least,  is  that  the  rumor?  " 

"  I  understand  so." 

The  Princess  leaned  slightly  forward. 

"I  suppose  it  is  nearly  time,  isn't  it?  And  quite  between 
ourselves,  I  suspect  your  Embassy  people  wouldn't  be  altogether 
sorry  to  get  Mr.  Denzil  out  of  Rome." 

"  But  why?     He's  very  clever." 

"  Oh  well  " —  often  when  the  Princess  was  asked  a  direct 
question  the  secretiveness  characteristic  of  the  Roman  race  took 
possession  of  her.  "There  may  have  been  little  things — I 
don't  know.  Does  he  always  get  on  with  the  other  diplomats? 
I  had  an  idea  there  had  been  some  fuss  with  a  certain  ambas- 


no  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Dolores,  like  every  one  else,  had  heard  of  the  Tomtit  affair. 

"  There  was,"  she  said. 

"Well  then?" 

There  was  a  pause.  Then  Dolores  repeated,  "  I  think  I 
must  have  heard  it.     My  husband  knows  the  Denzils  so  well." 

Not  by  the  sound  of  her  voice,  but  by  the  turn  of  her  phrase, 
the  Princess  knew  that  Dolores  was  jealous  of  the  Denzils. 

"  Yes,  of  course  you  are  very  intimate  with  them,"  she  re- 
plied, including  Dolores  with  a  touch  of  delicate  malice. 
"  Still  things  often  get  out  in  Rome  without  any  definite  reve- 
lations by  the  persons  most  interested.  And  besides  —  forgive 
me!  I  don't  think  the  English  are  especially  clever  at  keeping 
their  secrets." 

She  spoke  lightly,  smiling. 

"  Don't  you?     But  we  are  said  to  be  so  reserved." 

"  So  you  often  are,  in  manner.  But  it  wants  more  than 
mere  manner  to  keep  a  secret  fast." 

"  A  famous  American  once  told  me  he  thought  the  English 
the  subtlest  nation  in  Europe,  the  cleverest  in  diplomacy,  and 
the  most  insincere  in  public  affairs." 

"  Certainly  you  have  generally  got  what  you  wanted.  And 
that  is  perhaps  the  greatest  test  of  ability  in  life." 

"  To  get  and  —  to  keep,"  murmured  Dolores. 

She  really  said  this  to  herself,  and  almost  unconsciously.  But 
it  touched  the  Princess  on  the  raw. 

"  You  English  know  how  to  keep.  Nobody  doubts  that," 
she  said. 

She  longed  to  speak  fiercely  so  she  spoke  quietly,  and  as  she 
looked  at  Dolores  she  strove  deliberately  to  veil  the  fire  in  her 
eyes.  At  this  moment  she  hated  Dolores,  because  Dolores  had 
hurt  her,  and  she  longed  to  strike  back.  But  though  her  secret 
anger  partially  submerged  her  intelligence  it  did  not  affect  her 
native  caution.  She  was  inclined  now  to  believe  ill  of  her 
visitor,  to  believe  that  Dolores  was  perhaps  une  petite  chatte, 
whose  sharp  claws  were  generally  padded  with  velvet,  but  who 
was  capable  of  playing  a  double  part,  of  both  stroking  and 
wounding.  But  she  only  allowed  herself  a  light  irony,  as  she 
added: 

"  And  perhaps  your  American  was  right.  Perhaps  you  are 
past  masters  and  mistresses  in  that  art." 

;]  What  art?" 

"  Perhaps  you  know  how  to  jouer  le  monde  far  better  than 
we  Latins  do,  despite  our  apparent  suppleness  of  mind." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  iii 

She  was  going  to  say  more,  but  she  stopped.  She  was  sit- 
ting with  her  face  turned  towards  the  vista  of  drawing-rooms, 
and  at  this  moment  she  saw  detach  itself  from  the  farthest 
gloom  the  short  square-built  figure  of  a  man  walking  slowly, 
almost  meditatively,  towards  her. 

"  Here  comes  some  one  who  may  be  able  to  tell  us,  if  he 
chooses." 

Dolores  turned  her  head. 

"Who?"  she  asked. 

"  Pacci,"  said  the  Princess. 

Still  walking  slowly  and  meditatively  the  square-built  figure 
approached,  and  entered  the  room  where  the  tv/o  women  sat, 
with  a  tread  that  sounded  heavily  even  upon  the  thick  carpet 
which  covered  the  whole  of  the  floor. 

"  Pacci,  buona  sera"  said  the  Princess. 

As  she  said  it,  as  she  held  out  her  hand  to  the  newcomer, 
she  was  changed.  To  Dolores  she  seemed  suddenly  to  becom.e 
more  foreign,  more  definitely  Italian,  and  gentler.  Something 
that  was  almost  like  tenderness  appeared  in  her  dark  face. 
It  was  obvious  to  Dolores  that  the  man  who  now  very  seriously, 
and  almost  heavily,  bowed  over  the  outstretched  hand,  was  re- 
garded with  affection  by  the  Princess. 

Giosue  Pacci  was  a  man  well  known  in,  ytt  not  really  well 
known  by,  Rome.  He  was  a  Roman,  and  not  an  aristocrat, 
yet  he  had  conquered  a  position  in  the  aristocratic  world.  Such 
an  achievement  is  rare  in  Rome,  where  the  middle-class  never 
mixes  in  society  with  the  aristocratic  class.  Perhaps  it  had 
been  accomplished  partly  by  the  curious  power  of  indifference. 
Pacci  was  indifferent  to  social  distinctions.  Indeed  he  scarcely 
seemed  to  know  what  they  were.  He  was  erudite  and  lived 
often  in  dreams.  And  he  did  not  mind  dreaming  in  public, 
at  dinners  and  at  receptions.  He  was  quite  unworldly.  Com- 
pleteness often  has  an  almost  mysterious  attraction,  especially 
for  the  incomplete.  The  thoroughness  of  Pacci's  indifference 
and  unworldliness  had  certainly  made  an  impression  upon  the 
worldly  Rome.  And  Pacci  combined  these  rare  qualities  with 
great  kindness  of  heart  and  great  romance  of  spirit. 

He  was  probably  the  most  really  romantic  person  in  all 
Rome,  but  not  in  connection  with  human  beings.  He  had 
a  deep  and  a  strong  passion  for  beauty,  but  often  scarcely 
knew  whehter  he  was  being  talked  to  by  a  lovely  or  a  plain 
woman. 

Nature  was  his  mistress,  and  all  the  old  and  inanimate  glories 


112  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

and  beauties  of  the  world.  He  planted  flowers  to  mark  the 
sites  of  buried  temples,  and  a  dead  city  meant  more  to  him 
than  any  woman  laid  out  for  burial,  with  lighted  candles  about 
her,  and  mourners  praying  for  the  peace  of  her  soul. 

He  bowed  very  low,  almost  with  a  simple  reverence,  over  the 
Princess's  hand,  till  his  short,  thick,  black  beard  was  pressed 
against  his  broad  chest.  Then,  lifting  himself  up,  he  looked 
with  his  small  almost  childlike  blue-gray  eyes  at  Dolores. 

"  Surely  you  know  Lady  Cannynge,  Pacci !  " 

"  No,  only  my  husband,  I  think,"  Dolores  said,  giving  him 
her  hand. 

Pie  took  it,  bowed  again,  and  sat  down  with  the  air  of  a 
child  well  satisfied  to  find  itself  at  home. 

"Shall  we  ask  him?"  inquired  the  Princess  of  Dolores,  as 
she  handed  to  Pacci  a  plate  of  long  and  sticky  dainties,  made  of 
pastry  and  currant  jam. 

She  did  not  offer  him  tea.     He  never  took  it. 

"  I  don't  think  Signor  Pacci  would  give  us  an  answer  to 
such  a  question,"  said  Dolores. 

Pacci  began  to  eat  one  of  the  pastry  cakes  with  relish. 

He  did  not  look  interested.  Nor  did  he  ask  what  the  ques- 
tion was.     And  his  gentle  indifference  fascinated  Dolores. 

"Let  us  find  out,"  rejoined  the  Princess.  "Pacci!  — 
Pacci!'' 

Pacci  looked  up. 

"  Ebbene!"  he  observed,  in  a  muffled  voice. 

"  Now,  we  are  going  to  talk  English." 

"  Very  well,"  he  said  calmly,  speaking  English  with  an  ex- 
traordinary accent  which  no  system  of  spelling  could  convey 
to  the  mind. 

"  We  wish  you  to  tell  us  whether  you  consider  the  Anglo- 
Saxon  or  the  Latin  race  the  most  subtle." 

Pacci  looked  at  the  room,  not  at  his  companions.  He  had 
finished  the  pastr}^ 

"Subtle,"  he  said — "and  by  that  —  you  mean?" 

He  paused. 

"  Well,  we  were  speaking  of  being  subtle  in  the  sense  of 
being  able  to  deceive  others,  to  ]ouer  le  monde." 

Pacci  looked  thoughtful  and  grave. 

"  Those  who  deceive  easily  in  small  things  are  usually  shal- 
low-brained," he  said,  "  like  the  curious  and  the  gossips.  You 
remember  Nietzsche's  Ear  big  as  a  man  —  in  Zarathustra, 
perched  on  a  slender  stalk,  its  homunculus,  with  a  small  en- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  113 

vious  countenance.  And  against  the  stalk  dangled  a  bloated 
soullet  —  shallow-brained !  Shallow-brained !  And  shallow- 
souled!" 

His  curiously  muffled  voice,  which  sometimes  sounded  like 
the  voice  of  a  child,  seemed  to  stray  among  the  words  vaguely. 
It  was  wandering  almost  as  the  voice  of  a  stream,  and  at  mo- 
ments was  so  withdrawn  that  it  nearly  disappeared. 

"  Arabs  love  to  trick  those  about  them  in  trifling  matters, 
but  very  seldom  do  they  bring  any  great  matter  to  a  satisfactory 
conclusion.  The  Chinese  —  as  we  know  from  11  Tao  di  Loot- 
sen,  or  *  Road  of  Virtue,'  written  by  the  philosopher  Laotse 
some  five  hundred  years  before  Christ " 

Dolores  began  to  smile. 

"  Never  mind  Chinese  philosophers,  caro  Pacci,"  interrupted 
the  Princess  at  this  point.  "  Leave  them  to  their  bird's-nest 
soup.  You  are  with  women,  try  to  remember.  Consider  us 
among  the  number  of  the  shallow-brained,  if  you  like,  but  tell 
us  whether  the  English  or  the  Italian  is  the  subtler  nation." 

"  IMacchiavelli,"  m.urmured  Pacci,  "  Fourteen  sixty-nine  — 
fifteen  twenty-seven  —  Voltaire  —  sixteen  ninety-four  —  seven- 
teen seventy-eight  — " 

"  Pacci,  you  are  vaguer  than  ever  to-day.  I  am  sure  Vol- 
taire was  never  an  Englishman  at  any  time  in  his  varied  and 
tumultuous  career." 

For  the  first  time  Pacci  looked  steadily  at  her. 

*'  I  was  going  to  England,  Principessa." 

"  By  way  of  France !  Then  I  beg  your  pardon.  But  never 
mind  historical  personages.  Be  modern,  Pacci,  for  once,  and 
look  at  the  nations  as  they  are  to-day." 

Pacci  held  out  his  hand  for  another  of  the  sticky  cakes  which 
he  specially  loved. 

"And  the  sexes,  Principessa?"  he  said,  still  in  his  extra- 
ordinary English  which  was  as  a  new  language  invented  by 
himself.     "The  sexes?" 

"  We  know  about  them.  Women  are  much  more  subtle  than 
men." 

Pacci  slowly  shook  his  head. 

"You  think  not?"  asked  Dolores. 

All  this  time  she  had  been  listening  intently.  The  entrance 
of  this  unusual  man  had  brought  to  her  a  strange  feeling  of 
calm,  as  if  she  became  conscious  of  the  profound  repose  of  in- 
animate things  in  the  immense  spaces  of  the  world. 

"  Men  — ■  men  are  the  deceivers.     I  am  not  taking  it  from 


114  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Weininger  —  a  genius  with  germs  of  madness.  Look  into  his- 
tory  " 

"  We  shall  do  nothing  of  the  kind,  my  dear  Pacci,"  said  the 
Princess  with  velvety  firmness.     "  Nothing  of  the  kind." 

She  turned  towards  Dolores. 

"  Pacci  is  ahvays  like  this,"  she  said,  talking  about  her  guest 
as  if  he  were  not  there.  "  You  ask  for  an  opinion  and  he 
tries  to  give  you  a  history  of  mankind.  We  had  better  give  it 
up.     You  must  have  your  cup  of  milk,  Pacci." 

She  poured  some  milk  into  a  tea-cup,  put  in  three  lumps  of 
sugar,  and  handed  it  to  him. 

The  mental  atmosphere  in  the  room  was  completely  changed 
since  Paeci's  entrance.  Subtly,  without  doing  anything,  he 
had  for  the  moment  united  the  two  women  who  had  been,  who 
would  be  again,  very  far  apart.  They  were  now  feeling  alike. 
They  were  feeling  maternal.  Pacci  sipped  his  milk,  with  al- 
most as  much  relish  as  a  baby  displays  when  the  tube  of  its 
bottle  is  introduced  into  its  O  of  a  mouth.  Then,  setting 
down  the  cup,  he  remarked : 

"  I  have  been  all  day  in  the  Campagna." 

"What  have  you  been  doing  there? 

"  Walking  alone  —  with  scirocco  1  " 

His  eyes  became  full  of  reverie.  As  she  regarded  him  the 
Princess  had  again  the  soft  look  in  the  eyes  which  transformed 
5ier  usually  rather  imperious,  though  often  seductive  face.  This 
look  simplified  her  appearance  wonderfull)^ 

" Lo  so  —  lo  so!"  she  said. 

For  a  moment  there  was  a  silence.  In  It  Dolores  thought 
of  Cesare  Carelli,  and  of  his  almost  violent  love  for  the  strange 
and  exquisite  country  in  the  midst  of  which  lies  Rome;  Rome 
with  its  history  of  glory,  and  crime,  and  decadence  and  ruin: 
Rome  with  its  secrets,  its  kisses,  its  knife  thrusts  and  its  tears; 
Rome  with  its  new  aspirations,  its  lures  for  the  gold-bug  and 
the  women  who  scatter,  its  charms  and  its  banalities  of  a  second- 
rate  watering-place:  Rome  with  its  palace  where  dwells,  so 
millions  believe,  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God ;  Rome  with  its  poor 
little  Dolores,  and  her  trouble  of  a  woman,  Vv'hlch  seemed  to 
her  sometimes  as  great  as  the  world. 

In  that  moment  of  silence  Dolores,  through  the  silent  woman 
and  man  she  was  with,  began  for  the  first  time  faintly  to  real- 
ize the  wonder  of  the  Campagna,  whose  shepherds  decreed 
Rome,  to  think  of  it  almost  as  one  thinks  of  a  great  personality. 

"  Tieniti  puro  nella  quiete.     Non  lasciarti  turbare  dalla  tern- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  115 

pesia.  Piu  che  tu  sentirai  di  essere  uorno  piu  ii  assomigUerai 
agll  Dei." 

It  was  the  voice  of  Pacci,  speaking  to  himself,  as  he  had 
spoken  to  himself  through  the  long  day  in  the  gray  Campag^na, 
where  towards  sunset  the  isolated  pine-trees  had  floated  like 
mysterious  vessels  for  a  moment  on  the  breast  of  a  golden  sea. 

"Tieniti  puro  nella  quiete  —  nella  quiete." 

As  Dolores  went  away,  and  was  lost  in  the  vista  of  faintly 
lit  rooms,  the  Princess  said  to  her  companion : 

"  Pacci,  I  want  you  to  tell  me.  What  do  you  think  of  that 
lady,  of  Lady  Cannynge  ?  " 

Pacci  looked  rather  distressed.  Evidently  he  did  not  think 
almost  anything,  either  good  or  bad. 

"  She  is  not  —  I  believe  —  a  disturbing  influence,"  he  dropped 
out  at  length.  "  At  least  —  not  to-day.  Yesterday  —  to- 
morrow —  chi  lo  sa?  " 

"Yes,  but  didn't  you  get  any  im.pression  as  to  her  nature?" 

It  was  seldom  that  with  her  spoilt  Pacci  the  Princess  was  so 
persistent. 

"  Nero  undoubtedly  had  a  dual  nature.  Once  when  I  was 
at  Sublaqueum  with  Anticelli " 

The  Princess  lay  back  on  her  sofa  and  closed  her  eyes. 


CHAPTER  IX 

As  Dolores  slowly  descended  the  staircase  of  the  Palazzo 
Urbino  she  was  still,  so  it  seemed  to  her,  almost  mysteriously 
aware  of  Pacci.  The  personality  of  this  short  and  bearded  man, 
who  loved  sticky  cakes  and  sugared  milk,  had  enfolded  the 
suspicions,  the  miseries,  the  secret  hostility  and  the  misunder- 
standing of  the  Princess  Mancelli  and  herself  with  its  peculiar 
and  beautiful  calm  and  simplicity,  almost  as  the  Campagna 
enfolds  the  cries,  the  crimes,  and  the  sorrows  of  Rome  with  its 
strange  and  romantic  tranquillity.  But  when  she  emerged  from 
the  palace,  and  saw  the  misty  darkness  of  the  starless  sky  above 
her,  she  forgot  Giosue  Pacci.  As  she  drove  back  through  old 
Rome  she  was  conscious  that  she  was  a  different  woman  from 
the  Dolores  who  had  so  sadly,  so  almost  fearfully,  regarded 
the  mysterious  city  but  a  little  while  before.  She  knew  it 
when  she  again  passed  the  antiquary's  shop.  By  the  faint  light 
of  an  old  lamp  she  saw  the  owner  seated,  leaning  forward,  in 


ii6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

a  large  chair,  surrounded  by  shapes  and  silhouettes  of  mysteries. 
But  she  thought  of  him  now  as  a  comfortable  citizen,  resting 
after  the  successful  labors  of  the  day.  The  warm  wind  still 
blew  gustily  through  the  narrow  and  tortuous  streets,  but  it 
was  no  longer  unnatural  and  sickly;  it  was  just  the  scirocco 
that  sometimes  comes  to  Italy,  and  that  soon  gives  place  to  the 
tonic  and  blithe  Tramontana. 

Perhaps  the  Denzils  were  going  to  leave  Rome !  Only  now 
she  knew  how  much  she  had  been  suffering.  She  grasped  at 
relief  and  would  not  question  it  during  the  drive  home.  But 
when  she  came  into  their  apartment,  and  saw  her  husband  read- 
ing under  a  shaded  electric  light,  she  felt  uncertainty  within 
her  and  knew  she  must  lay  it  to  rest  if  possible. 

"  How  late  you  are,  Doloretta!  " 

Sir  Theodore  laid  down  his  book  on  his  knee  and  pulled  his 
pointed  beard  once.  Another  book  lay  open  on  a  small  table 
beside  him.     Dolores  went  to  him  and  took  the  volume  up. 

"  Gogol!  "  she  said.  "And  you  are  reading  it  in  the  orig- 
inal!" 

"  Trying  to  with  the  translation  at  hand." 

"  You  must  have  got  on  splendidly." 

"  One  has  a  lot  of  time  here.  But  where  have  you  been, 
and  why  do  you  look  so  animated  ?  " 

He  gazed  up  at  her,  and  his  eyes  were  bright  with  a  genuine 
curiosity. 

"  I  don't  know  when  I've  seen  you  look  so  full  of  life,"  he 
added,  almost  with  suspicion. 

A  faint  embarrassment  clouded  the  face  of  Dolores. 

She  turned  away  and  sat  down. 

"  I've  only  been  having  tea  with  Princess  Mancelli." 

Sir  Theodore  looked  rather  surprised,  and  not  altogether 
pleasantly  surprised. 

"  A  tea  party,  I  suppose?  " 

"  No." 

"  I  didn't  know  the  Princess  and  you  were  so  friendly." 

"  Friendly !  She  asked  me  and  I  thought  I  would  go.  She 
had  invited  some  people,  I  believe.  But  none  came  except,  at 
the  end,  Commendatore  Pacci." 

"  Pacci !     The  historian !  " 

Sir  Theodore's  keen  face  softened. 

"  He's  a  good  little  fellow.  Could  you  get  anything  out 
of  him?" 

"  Not  very  much  —  that  is  in  words.     But " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  117 

She  hesitated.  She  hardly  cared  to  say  to  any  one  how  strong 
and  peculiar  had  been  Pacci's  influence  in  the  Princess's  draw- 
ing-room. 

"  I  know.     His  silence  is  pervasive  and  means  very  much." 

"  You  know  him,  Theo,  don't  you?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  Try  to  bring  him  here." 

"  Another  lion  for  your  salon." 

There  was  a  touch  of  slight  sarcasm  in  his  voice.  Dolores 
faintly  reddened.  Could  not  Theo  see  that  it  was  for  him  she 
was  trying  to  make  their  home  interesting,  attractive?  Could 
he  not  see  that  all  she  was  doing  was  being  done  for  him?  A 
sort  of  despair  seized  her  at  the  blindness  of  men.  But  she 
shook  it  off  as  she  thought  of  the  news  of  that  day. 

"Is  he  a  lion?" 

"  Of  course." 

*'  Well,  I  was  thinking  of  him  only  as  an  unusual  man." 

"  He  is,  very  unusual.  He's  a  small  man,  but  he  makes 
small  things  seem  nothings  by  his  interior  greatness." 

"  Yes." 

"You  felt  that?" 

She  was  rather  startled  by  his  emphasis,  by  the  way  he  moved, 
leaning  towards  her,  and  she  felt  immediately  inclined  to  shrink 
back  into  reserve. 

"  I  was  taking  it  from  you,  Theo.  I  scarcely  know  Signer 
Pacci.     But  I  tiiink  I  should  like  to." 

"  Very  well,  Doloretta.     I  will  try  to  get  him  here." 

"  Thank  you." 

"  And  how  was  the  Princess?  " 

"  Very  pleasant." 

"  She  is  of  the  ancient  Roman  breed  at  heart,  I  believe," 
said  Sir  Theodore  rather  thoughtfully,  "  not  a  woman  to  be 
trifled  with." 

If  he  was  thinking  about  the  Princess's  connection  with 
Carelli  he  did  not  say  so. 

"  Oh,  by  the  way,"  said  Dolores,  as  if  suddenly  remember- 
ing something.  "  The  Princess  surprised  me  very  much  by 
one  thing  she  told  me.       I  don't  think  it  can  be  true." 

"What  was  it?" 

"  It  was  about  the  Denzils." 

"  The  Denzils!  "  said  Sir  Theodore. 

With  a  quick  movement  he  lifted  the  book  from  his  knees 
and  laid  it  on  the  table  beside  him. 


i:8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"What  about  the  Denzils?"  he  added. 

"  The  Princess  said  she  had  heard  that  Francis  won't  stay 
here  much  longer,  that  he  is  probably  going  to  Munich  as 
minister.  Do  you  think  there  can  be  anything  in  it?  Surely 
we  must  have  heard  of  it.     But  perhaps  you  have  heard  of  it?  " 

"Francis  —  going  to  Munich!"  said  Theodore.  "Absurd! 
What  will  they  say  next?  " 

"  You  mean  that  you  know  it  isn't  true?  " 

"  Of  course  it  isn't  true.     I've  never  heard  a  word  of  it." 

"Well,  but " 

"  My  dear  Doloretta,  ask  j^ourself,  does  any  one  in  Rome 
know  Francis  as  I  do?  " 

His  deep  voice  sounded  almost  angry.  She  looked  at  him, 
?.nd  it  seemed  to  her  she  saw  resentment  shining  in  his  eyes. 

"  Can  you  conceive  Francis  telling  such  a  thing  to  Princess 
Mancelli  before  he  told  it  to  me?"  he  continued.  "Let  us 
be  reasonable,  even  in  Rome." 

"  But,  Theo  —  I  never  said " 

"  No,  no !     But  you  evidently  thought  It  possible." 

Scarcely  ever  before  had  Dolores  heard  him  speak  to  her 
with  such  almost  sharp  irritation. 

"  Of  course  if  it  had  really  been  settled  Francis  would  have 
told  you  before  any  one.  He  always  puts  you  first,  and  he  is 
such  a  loyal  friend,"  she  said. 

Sir  Theodore  made  no  answer.  He  pulled  at  his  beard,  and 
stared  before  him  for  a  moment.  Then  he  got  up  from  his 
chair. 

"  We're  dining  at  home  to-night,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  mind 
saying  half-past  eight  instead  of  eight  for  dinner?  " 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  Did  the  Princess  say  hov/  she  had  heard  this  absurd 
rumor?  " 

"  No." 

"  Did  she  appear  to  believe  it?" 

"  I  think  she  did." 

Sir  Theodore  uttered  a  half-muffled  exclamation  of  con- 
temptuous impatience  and  went  out  of  the  room. 

Dolores  knew  very  well  where  he  was  going.  He  was  going 
to  the  flat  in  the  Via  Vcnti  Settembre  to  find  out  the  truth  — 
and  for  her,  for  her,  as  well  as  for  himself. 

She  rang  the  bell  and  put  off  dinner  till  half-past  eight. 
Then  she  went  to  her  bedroom,  took  off  her  hat  and  veil,  and 
her  jacket,   and   returned   to   the   drawing-room,   to  wait   for 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  119 

Theo's  return.  She  took  up  the  volume  of  Gogol  he  had  been 
studying,  and  sat  down  where  he  bad  been  sitting.  She  felt 
highly  nervous  and  restless,  but  she  forced  herself  to  sit  still. 
Opposite  to  her  was  the  Lenbach  portrait  of  the  old  man  with 
the  heavily  veined  face  and  the  piercingly  intelligent  eyes.  To- 
night those  eyes  seemed  to  be  full  of  a  malicious  scrutiny  as 
they  regarded  her.  The  original  of  the  portrait  was  long  since 
dead,  and  Dolores  knew  it.  Nevertheless  she  felt  as  if  his 
acute  mind,  somewhere,  must  know  all  that  was  passing 
through  hers  this  evening,  all  of  agitation,  desire,  opposition, 
and  fear. 

How  she  wished,  prayed,  that  what  Princess  Mancelli  had 
said  about  Denzil  being  removed  to  Munich  might  be  true! 
And  yet  something  within  her  fought  against  that  wish,  strove 
to  prevent  that  prayer.  For  she  loved  Theo  and  hated  to  see 
him  suffer,  even  though  his  suffering  was  necessary  if  she  were 
to  be  relieved  of  her  burden.  And  what  a  heavy,  almost  crush- 
ing burden  it  had  been!  Then  she  was  selfish,  she  forgot  to 
pity  Theo,  and  again  she  prayed  that  the  Denzils  might  go 
away,  soon,  very  soon. 

It  was  just  striking  eight  o'clock  when  Sir  Theodore  re- 
entered the  room.  Dolores  cast  a  swift  glance  at  his  face  and 
knew. 

"  Have  vou  been  out,  Theo?     It  is  nearly  time  to  dress." 

"  Eight  o'clock." 

He  looked  mechanically  towards  the  clock.  Its  delicate 
chime  died  away. 

"  Yes,  I  have  been  out." 

He  came  up  to  the  hearth.  She  thought  he  looked  almost 
defiant,  and  his  voice  was  unusually  hard  as  he  continued: 

"  I've  been  to  the  flat  to  ask  Francis  whether  there  was  any 
truth  in  that  report  about  Munich.  Edna  was  away  at  Fras- 
cati  for  the  night  with  her  mother." 

There  was  a  deliberate  carelessness  in  his  way  of  speaking. 

"  V/as  Francis  in  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"And  is  there  any  truth  in  the  report 2" 

*'  It  seems  there  is." 

There  was  a  pause.     Then  Dolores  said:* 

"  How  very  odd  of  Francis  not  to  let  you  know." 

"  Old  Francis  can  keep  a  thing  dark  even  from  his  friend." 

He  stood  looking  straight  before  him  at  the  frieze  of  the 
dancing  boys.     Then,  turning,  he  said : 


120  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Princess  Mancelli  gave  you  no  hint  at  all  as  to  how  she 
knew  about  this  —  this  project?" 

"  None  at  all.  She  said  she  had  been  playing  bridge  at  the 
British  Embassy." 

"  She  certainly  can't  have  heard  of  it  there.  The  reason  I 
ask  is  that  Francis  seemed  —  in  fact  he  was  —  very  much  sur- 
prised and  disgusted  at  the  thing  having  got  out.  Nobody 
knew  it,  except,  of  course,  Edna,  according  to  him." 

"Nobody!" 

*'  Except  the  two  or  three  in  the  inner  circle  who  would 
never  dream  of  talking.  Not  that  the  matter's  of  particular 
importance.  But  Francis  didn't  wish  anything  said  till  the 
affair  was  settled." 

"And  isn't  it  settled?" 

Again  he  glanced  at  her  almost  with  suspicion.  But  she 
managed  to  look  quite  unconcerned,  controlling  her  eyes  though 
she  had  perhaps  not  controlled  her  voice. 

"  I  think  Francis  will  go  to  Munich." 

As  he  spoke  gloom  overspread  his  face.  For  a  moment  he 
had  been  thinking  of  his  wife,  observing  her,  perhaps  wonder- 
ing about  her.     Now  he  was  concentrated  on  himself. 

"  They  will  be  a  great  loss  to  Rome,"  Dolores  said. 

Why  she  said  anything  so  weak,  so  banal,  so  impotent,  she 
did  not  know.  Without  any  volition  of  hers  it  seemed  as  if 
the  words  fell  out  of  her  mouth  preposterously. 

"  I  don't  know  about  Rome.  They  will  be  a  terrible  loss 
to  us." 

There  were  lines  now  in  his  dark  forehead,  above  which  the 
thick,  silvered  hair  lay  straightly,  almost  In  slabs. 

"  Francis  is  my  oldest  friend.  I  can  drop  In  on  him  when 
I  like,  talk  to  him  as  I  can  talk  to  no  man." 

"  I  know.     Francis  Is  such  a  good  fellow." 

There  was  real  sympathy  in  her  voice  now.  Never  had  she 
been  secretly  jealous  of  Denzil.  Lately  indeed  she  had  seen 
In  him  a  human  barricade  against  a  threatening  danger.  Again 
and  again  when  she  had  been  attacked  by  the  cruel  weapons 
of  jealousy  the  thought  of  Denzil  had  been  as  a  shield  which 
she  had  held  before  her,  and  which  had  defended  her.  How 
could  she  be  genuinely  jealous  of  Edna  Denzil  when  Denzil 
was  always  there  to  be  adored  by  his  wife  and  to  be  loved  and 
respected  by  his  friend?  If  Denzil  were  not  there!  Dolores 
had  sometimes  imagined  a  great  change  —  Denzil  removed. 
And    then    her    mind    had    shuddered.     Emerging    from    the 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  121 

spell  of  that  imagination  she  had  felt  almost  as  if  she  loved 
Denzil  simply  because  he  existed,  and  could  make  her  feel  by 
his  mere  existence  the  absurdity  of  her  jealousy. 

"  If  he  goes,  Rome  will  seem  very  different  to  me,"  said  Sir 
Theodore,  with  a  sort  of  deep  almost  morose  melancholy  that 
Dolores  had  never  before  seen  in  him. 

"  I  know,  I  know.  But,  Theo,  remember  that  it  is  only 
quite  lately  you  have  had  Francis  near  you.     For  years " 

"My  dear  Doloretta!  I  had  my  work  then.  Do  remem- 
ber that!  And  besides,  I  hadn't  formed  the  habit  of  dropping 
in  perpetually  on  Francis.  Perhaps  you  don't  realize  how 
much  habit  —  especially  happy  habit  —  means  to  a  man  of  my 
age.  I  don't  know  how  I  shall  get  on  in  Rome  without 
Francis." 

Francis!  Francis!  Francis!  Why  did  he  not  say  the 
truth?  Why  did  he  not  say  Francis,  Edna,  the  children? 
That  was  what  he  meant.  That  was  why  he  showed  such 
unusual  emotion.  Again  jealousy  burned  at  the  heart  of  Dolo- 
res. Her  secret  uncontrollable  joy  died.  It  was  blighted  by 
the  words,  more  by  the  manner  of  her  husband ;  and  yet  her 
feeling  of  misery,  of  impotence,  and  of  tacit  rejection  was  com- 
plicated by  a  sensation  of  genuine  and  almost  maternal  pity  for 
the  sorrow  of  the  man  she  loved.  She  longed  to  put  her  arm 
round  her  husband's  neck,  to  kiss  him,  to  say  "I  know!  I 
know!  But  I'm  here.  Can't  I  make  up?  Let  me  try,  and 
oh,  Theo,  let  me  —  let  me  succeed!  "  How  useless  that  would 
be.  Her  quick  imagination  had  visualized  the  situation,  and 
had  seen  her  husband  gently  —  oh  yes,  he  would  do  it  gently  — 
take  her  arm  from  his  neck  with  a  patient  air;  the  patient  air 
of  the  superior  being  whose  complex  feelings  are  being  com- 
pletely misunderstood  by  the  being  who  is  inferior. 

"What  did  we  come  to  settle  in  Rome  for?"  continued  Sir 
Theodore,  "if  not  to  be  within  reach  of  Francis  and  Edna?" 

"  People  are  alwaj-s  being  changed  about  in  diplomacy." 

With  all  her  will  Dolores  strove  to  speak  naturally,  quietly, 
impersonally. 

"  Of  course.  And  I  can  only  wish  this  advancement  for 
Francis.  I  do  wish  it.  But  the  chances  were  that  he  would 
remain  on  here  very  much  longer.  He  is  very  happy  in  Rome. 
He's  still  young.  There  was  plenty  of  time.  And  Edna  likes 
being  near  to  her  mother  who  is  permanently  settled,  remem- 
ber, at  Frascati.  Still,  of  course,  all  Francis's  friends  ought 
to  wish  that  he  may  get  this  step.     Munich,  too!  " 


122  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Dolores  knew  that  he  was  brooding  at  this  moment  on  the 
abrupt  ending  of  his  own  diplomatic  career.  He  put  both  his 
hands  on  the  stone  of  the  high  mantelpiece,  taking  hold  of  the 
columns.  His  chin  dropped  a  little.  For  an  instant  he  looked 
almost  old. 

"  What  a  selfish  brute  I  am ! "  he  exclaimed,  lifting  his 
head  and  letting  go  of  the  stone. 

For  a  moment  Dolores  was  tricked  into  believing  that  he 
was  going  to  say  something  tender,  unselfish  to  her,  something 
that  would  show  a  consciousness  on  his  part  of  her  bitter  pain 
of  the  woman  —  left  out.  But  he  added,  "  I  ought  to  rejoice 
in  this  prospect  for  Francis,  and  I  simply  can't.  My  own  loss 
dominates  me.     Well !  " 

With  a  gesture  which  seemed  to  indicate  profound  self-con- 
tempt, but  which  had  absolutely  no  reference  to  his  wife,  which 
might,  indeed,  have  been  made  by  a  man  entirely  alone,  he  ab- 
ruptly went  out  of  the  room. 

Dolores  clenched  her  thin  hands,  pressed  her  lips  together 
and,  after  a  moment  of  stillness,  during  which  she  was  mentally 
staring  at  herself  in  her  life,  as  one  might  stare  through  a 
window  at  a  woman  abandoned  beginning  to  starve  in  an  un- 
furnished room,  she  went  away  to  dress  for  the  tete-a-tete  din- 
ner with  Theo. 

How  plainly,  how  brutally  almost,  Theo  was  beginning  to 
show  her  his  feelings.  Formerly  either  he  had  felt  differently, 
or  he  had  been  far  more  reticent,  far  more  careful.  Perhaps 
since  that  outburst  over  Nero  he  had  been  conscious  of  a  sense 
of  release.  It  was  true  that  the  silence  had  closed  again,  that 
Theo  had  never  restated  the  truth  of  their  married  life.  But 
had  he  not  been  more  openly  indifferent  in  action?  Was  he 
not  becoming  gradually  careless,  almost  cruel  in  his  behavior? 
Was  not  his  perpetual  intercourse  with  the  Denzils  blunting 
his  native  delicacy? 

At  this  moment  the  pride  of  Dolores  was  up  in  arms,  and 
she  began  almost  to  hate  Edna  Denzil. 

"  My  own  loss  dominates  me!  " 

She  had  pitied  Theo,  she  had  felt  tender  over  him.  But  now 
she  knew  a  sensation  very  strange  to  her,  of  hardness.  She  had 
met  hard  women  in  her  life  and  had  alwaj^s  secretly  shrunk 
from  them.  They  had  seemed  to  her  unsexed  beings.  Now  she 
began  to  understand  them.  They  were  women  who  had  suf- 
fered. They  had  the  right  to  be  hard,  bitterly  merciless.  In 
Marchesa  Verosti's  drawing-room  the  attentive  ej'es  of  women 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  123 

had  detected  a  development  in  Dolores  of  which  she  herself  was 
only  conscious  at  this  moment.  And  almost  immediately  she 
recoiled  from  that  consciousness.  The  softness  within  her  loved 
itself,  did  not  want  to  be  hurt  by  change.  She  clung  to  the  new 
knowledge  that  the  Denzils  were  going  away  from  Rome.  Once 
they  were  gone  Theo  would  be  released  from  what  was  becom- 
ing a  thraldom,  and  she  would  be  released  from  an  obsession 
of  jealousy  that  must  otherwise  ruin  lier  life. 

But  all  would  soon  be  well.  The  Denzils  were  going  away 
from  Rome.  Resolutely  she  hugged  that  thought.  She  dared 
at  that  moment  to  rely  on  life. 

Sir  Theodore  made  no  further  allusion  to  the  Denzils  and 
Munich  that  evening.  At  dinner  he  carefully  and  kindly 
"  made  "  conversation  to  Dolores. 

They  had  come  to  that,  to  the  "  making  "  of  conversation. 

She  felt  as  if  she  saw  the  first  stones  of  a  wall,  very  low  as 
yet,  but  solid,  between  them. 

But  the  Denzils  were  going  away,  and  then  all  would  be  as 
it  had  been.  That  condition  of  things  was  imperfect.  For 
there  was  the  terrible  gap  in  their  married  life  caused  by  child- 
lessness. But  now,  looking  back,  it  seemed  to  Dolores  as  if 
she  and  Theo  had  been  wonderfully  happy  in  the  days  before 
they  came  to  live  in  Rome. 

Once  the  Denzils  were  gone  they  would  renew  that  happiness. 
For  she  loved  Theo,  and  she  believed,  indeed  she  felt  sure  that 
he  still  loved  her;  not  as  he  had  once  loved  her,  in  eager  hope, 
in  a  glorious  expectation,  but  nevertheless  as  he  loved  no  other 
woman. 

And  that  was  true,  despite  the  traitorous  thought  which  had 
come  into  his  mind  at  twilight,  when  he  saw  the  little  Viola 
nestle  her  face  that  was  beginning  to  smile  against  her  father's 
shoulder. 


CHAPTER  X 

Three  weeks  later  a  tall,  clean-shaven,  middle-aged  man,  with 
a  rubicund,  but  rather  sad  face,  and  snow-white  hair,  was  open- 
ing a  letter  received  by  that  morning's  post  at  his  solitary 
breakfast-table  in  a  house  in  Cavendish  Square,  London.  The 
letter  was  from  Lady  Sarah  Ides,  and  the  middle-aged  man  v/as 
her  brother-in-law,  Doctor  Mervyn  Ides,  one  of  the  best  known 


124  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

throat  specialists  in  England.  In  years  gone  by,  before  he  had 
devoted  himself  exclusively  to  the  treatment  of  the  throat,  Doc- 
tor Ides  had  been  a  general  practitioner  among  the  English 
colony  in  Rome,  and,  like  most  people,  had  succumbed  to  the 
spell  of  the  city  of  fountains.  Perhaps  he  would  never  have  fol- 
low^ed  his  real  bent,  and  established  himself  in  gloomy  London, 
perhaps  he  would  have  been  kept  forever  by  the  fascina- 
tion of  Italy,  and  been  contented  in  comparative  obscurity,  if 
it  had  not  been  for  a  great  sorrow  which  overtook  him  in  Rome. 
He  fell  deeply  in  love  with  one  of  his  patients,  a  young  girl 
belonging  to  a  great  Italian  family,  and  she  fell  in  love  with 
him.  Her  parents  would  not  consent  to  their  marriage,  forbade 
Doctor  Ides  to  come  to  the  house,  and  in  a  very  short  time 
married  their  daughter  to  a  dissipated  young  Neapolitan,  with 
a  title  and  a  fortune  which  he  was  rapidly  gambling  away.  So 
the  doctor  was  still  a  bachelor,  his  hair  was  prematurely  white, 
and  he  w^orked,  as  some  of  his  colleagues  half  enviously  said, 
"  like  one  possessed  by  a  devil."  But  he  had  never  forgotten 
Rome,  and  his  few  months  of  romance  lit  by  a  girl's  dark  eyes. 
And  even  now,  In  his  middle  age,  he  could  never  think  of  Rome 
without  a  thrill  at  the  heart  which  made  him  feel  strangely 
young;  a  thrill  in  which  the  remembrance  of  Intense  joy  was 
united  with  the  remembrance  of  sorrow  not  less  Intense. 

On  this  morning  he  had  to  go  out  at  ten  o'clock  to  perform 
a  difficult  operation.  He  looked  at  his  watch,  as  he  laid  down 
Lady  Sarah's  letter.  Then  he  ate  a  bit  of  toast.  Then  he 
took  up  the  letter  once  more.  And  as  he  re-read  it  he  dreamed. 
And  In  his  dream  he  walked  beneath  tall  pine  trees,  and  down  cy- 
press avenues.  And  he  heard  the  music  that  was  to  him  as 
no  other  music,  the  soft  song  of  the  fountains  of  Rome  rising 
up  in  the  golden  summer,  when  Italy  at  noonday  sleeps  under 
a  rapture  of  blue. 

He  was  going  to  take  a  short  holiday.  His  sister-in-law 
pressed  him  to  spend  it  with  her  In  Rome. 

Since  he  had  left  Italy,  after  his  sorrow,  he  had  never  had 
the  courage  to  obey  his  longing  and  to  return  to  It ;  perhaps  he 
would  not  have  had  the  courage  now,  but  for  a  trifling  cir- 
cumstance which  occurred  as  he  left  his  house  to  perform  the 
operation.  In  the  fog  two  Italians  were  passing  by  with  a 
piano  organ.  When  they  saw  the  doctor  they  stopped,  and 
smiling  began  to  play.  And  the  tune  they  played  was  one  which 
he  had  perpetually  heard  In  the  streets  of  Rome. 

He  paused  by  his  motor  car  and  listened.     Then  he  gave 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  125 

the  Italians  a  shilling,  got  into  his  car,  and  drove  away  to 
the  nursing  home  in  Henrietta  Street  where  his  patient  was 
anxiously  waiting  for  him.  He  had  decided  to  "  take  his  cour- 
age in  both  hands,"  and  to  spend  his  holiday  in  Rome.  The 
dark-eyed  girl  was  the  mother  of  a  family  now,  and  probably  no 
longer  slim  and  intense,  with  a  glance  to  wake  up  all  the 
sleeping  romance  and  desire  of  a  man.  And  his  hair  was  white! 
iWhy  should  he  not  go  to  Rome. 

Not  many  mornings  later  he  saw  the  acqueducts  against  the 
pale  sunshine  of  dawn  in  the  Campagna,  the  shepherds  in  their 
sheepskins  and  heavy  cloaks,  with  their  white  dogs  beside  them, 
staring  at  the  passing  train,  the  snow-crowned  Sabine  moun- 
tains. As  he  walked  across  the  Piazza  delle  Terme  to  the 
Grand  Hotel  he  heard  the  song  of  the  fountain.  And  he  said 
to  himself  the  word  which  still  meant  to  him  how  much  more 
than  any  other  word  — "  Rome!    Rome!  " 

Lady  Sarah  and  he  were  great  friends.  Each  knew  of,  and 
comprehended,  the  sorrows  bravely  borne  of  the  other.  The 
doctor  had  no  intention  of  going  into  society  during  his  short 
stay  in  Italy.  He  meant  to  spend  his  time  quietly,  seeing  once 
more  some  of  the  many  things  he  had  cared  about  in  former 
days,  and  in  the  companionship  of  his  sister-in-law,  and  two 
or  three  old  Italian  acquaintances.  The  panorama  of  the 
gaiety  and  social  life  of  the  city  would  be  spread  out  before 
him  each  evening  in  the  restaurant  and  hall  of  the  Grand  Hotel, 
if  he  chose  to  go  down  to  look  at  it.  If  he  did  not  choose 
he  could  go  off  in  morning  clothes  and  dine  with  Lady  Sarah 
at  a  certain  restaurant  in  the  Via  della  Croce,  where  the  food 
was  excellent  though  the  floor  was  sanded,  and  where  an  old 
waiter,  with  the  manners  of  an  affectionate  ambassador,  dealt 
tenderly  with  every  whim. 

On  his  first  evening  in  Rome  he  invited  Lady  Sarah  to  dine 
with  him  at  the  Grand. 

She  was  not  specially  fond  of  Rome's  two  smart  hotels,  the 
Grand  and  the  Excelsior,  but,  nevertheless,  she  was  not  averse 
from  having  now  and  then  what  she  called  "  a  peep  at  the  twenti- 
eth century,"  and  as  this  particular  peep  was  to  be  shared  by 
her  brother-in-law,  she  felt  certain  she  would  enjoy  it. 

"  Would  you  believe  it,  Sarah,  if  I  told  you  I  feel  almost 
nervous?"  said  Doctor  Ides,  as  they  sat  down  at  their  table 
against  the  wall.  "  Fifteen  years  since  I  was  here,  you  know. 
And  even  perpetual  glaring  down  humanity's  throats  hasn't 
quite  killed  the  romance  in  me." 


126  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  unfolded  his  napkin.  As  he  did  so  the  band  struck  up 
a  cake-walk.     Fie  wrinkled  his  forehead. 

"  I'm  a  little  afraid,"  he  confessed. 

He  looked  round  over  the  throng  of  diners. 

"  No  one  I  know,  except  —  is  that  Princess  Mancelli?  Yes, 
it  must  be,  and  still  very  attractive.  Her  eves  are  unmistak- 
able." 

"In  that  curious  red  gown!  Yes,  It  Is  she.  If  you're 
afraid  of  Rome,  Alervyn,  you  ought  to  do  as  I  do." 

"What  is  that?" 

"  Live  chiefly  in  the  by-ways.     I  very  seldom  come  here." 

"  Too  much  cake-walk  about  it?  " 

"  For  me.  I  heard  a  sm.art  5'oung  married  Englishwoman 
the  other  day  saying  to  a  Roman  — '  You  have  come  on  out 
here.  If  you  keep  it  up,  in  three  or  four  years  people  will  be 
as  ready  to  come  to  Rome  in  spring  as  they  are  to  go  to  Monte 
Carlo.'  " 

"  And  what  was  the  reply?  " 

"Madame^  croyez  tnoi^  nous  coinmenqons  a  peine!" 

The  doctor  sighed. 

"  Yet  you  advised  me  to  come." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  was  a  little  bit  selfish,  Mervyn." 

His  face  softened. 

"  And  besides  Rome  can  be  so  many  things,"  continued  Lady 
Sarah.  "  To  you  and  me  it  will  never  be  Monte  Carlo.  And 
we  shall  not  be  here  when  the  world  becomes  one  vast  casino 
and  factory  rolled  into  one.  Rome  is  adorable  still,  and  glori- 
ous, and  touching  and  intimate  still.  And  then  there  is  always 
the  Campagna." 

"  Pacci's  cabbage  patch,"  as  I  heard  a  Yankee  once  call  it. 
Is  Pacci  just  the  same  as  ever?  " 

"Just  as  deep,  and  just  as  incoherent  —  not  In  mind  of 
course.     I  met  him  three  days  ago." 

"On  the  Via  Collatina?  Or  under  one  of  the  Fede  cy- 
presses ?  " 

"  In  a  drawing-room  In  Palazzo  Barberinl." 

"Not  playing  the  lion  who  is  roared  after?" 

"  Not  playing  anything.  Drinking  his  milk  and  sugar,  and 
musing  on  Ciriaco  d'Ancona,  Bhagavad-Gita,  and  goodness 
knows  what  besides,  as  he  did  when  you  felt  pulses  and  looked 
at  tongues  from  Porta  Pinciana  to  Monte  Savello." 

"  Thank  Heaven  I  can  enjoy  Rome  in  peace  now.  This  Is 
the  first  time  I  have  ever  had  a  holidav  here." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  127 

More  people  came  in  and  made  their  way  to  their  tables, 
consciously,  while  those  already  seated  stared  at  them  in  the 
peculiarly  savage  way  of  which  only  the  highly  civilized  have 
the  secret. 

"  Do  you  know  many?  "  asked  the  doctor  of  Lady  Sarah. 

She  glanced  round  the  big  white  room. 

"  A  few  —  and  more  by  sight." 

"  Who's  the  man  sitting  next  to  Princess  Manceili  ?  " 

"  I  don't  know  him,  or  who  he  is." 

"  He  looks  as  if  he  had  been  steadily  and  powerfully  squeezed, 
until  all  the  kindly  juices  of  humanity  had  run  out  of  him.  And 
now  he  is  as  dry  as  a  peau  de  chagrin/' 

"  Yes,  there  is  something  almost  alarming  in  his  appearance." 

At  this  moment  Montebruno,  for  it  was  he,  slovvly  turned 
his  strange  eyes  upon  Lady  Sarah  and  the  doctor. 

"  He  felt  we  were  speaking  of  him,"  observed  the  latter. 
"  He's  evidently  preserved  something  sensitive,  one  spark  per- 
haps in  the  midst  of  the  ashes." 

"  It's  a  terrible  face."  said  Lady  Sarah. 

Princess  Manceili  spoke  to  Montebruno  who  ceased  from 
regarding  them. 

"  Have  you  noticed,  when  watching  a  crowd  like  this,  how 
the  sad  faces  outnumber  the  happy  ones?  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  I  think  we  see  by  our  own  light.  If  it's  a  flickering  taper 
it  gives  everything  a  ghastly  look." 

"And  yours,  Sally?" 

"  It's  inclined  to  flicker,  but  I  try  to  keep  it  steady  and 
bright." 

"  I'm  sure  you  do.  But  I  don't  know  that  I  quite  agree 
with  your  definition  of  human  observation.  A  doctor  at  any 
rate  ought  to  train  himself  till  he  possesses  the  seeing  eye." 

"  That  perceives  what  is,  you  mean,  -vithout  being  influenced 
by  his  own  temperament  and  predispoc:!tion?  Well,  Mervyn, 
I'll  grant  you  this:  I  believe  if  you  and  I  v/ere  obliged  to  de- 
duce the  characters  and  circumstances  of  these  people  about  us 
from  their  faces  you  would  be  right  in  more  cases  than  I." 

"Well,  but  —  woman's  intuition?" 

She  smiled. 

"  I  would  back  myself  against  most  men.  But  you  spend 
your  days  in  summing  people  up,  and  I  think  you  were  born 
clear-sighted.     My  Dick  always  said  so." 

"  Dick  thought  too  much  of  me." 

"  I  wish  he  had  lived  to  see  vour  successes." 


128  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

The  music  ceased  for  a  moment,  and  the  pecuh'ar  roar — it 
was  more  than  a  hum  —  of  talking  humanity  seemed  suddenly 
to  spread  through  the  restaurant  like  a  percolating  tide. 

"  Here's  a  big  party  coming  in!  "  said  the  doctor,  who  was 
amused  by  the  show,  though,  as  he  watched  it,  he  felt  very  far 
away  from  the  Rome  he  had  known  and  loved. 

Almost  in  the  middle  of  the  restaurant,  and  not  far  from 
them,  was  a  great  oval  table  decorated  with  masses  of  daffodils, 
among  which  were  concealed  electric  lights  covered  with  pale 
yellow  silk.  A  stream  of  people  flowed  in  towards  it,  talking 
and  smiling,  and  nodding  to  acquaintances  as  they  passed  slowly 
between  the  tables. 

Two  or  three  of  them  greeted  Lady  Sarah.  They  arranged 
themselves  round  the  daffodils,  forming  a  human  chain,  it 
seemed,  to  imprison  the  spring,  lest  it  should  lightly  laugh  and 
evade  them. 

"Who  are  they  all?"  asked  the  doctor,  "The  face  of  that 
very  tall  man  seems  familiar  to  me." 

"  He's  Sir  Theodore  Cannynge." 

"  To  be  sure.  I  attended  him  once  when  he  was  an  attache 
at  the  British  Embassy  here.     Is  his  wife  there?  " 

Lady  Sarah  pointed  out  Dolores.  Doctor  Ides  looked  at  her 
but  made  no  comment.  The  giver  of  the  dinner  was  Countess 
Boccara,  who  had  let  her  mischievous  temperament  have  its 
fling.  She  had  gathered  together  the  Cannynges,  the  Denzils, 
Cesare  Carelli,  his  mother.  Princess  Carelli;  two  striking,  but 
rather  startling  women  who  had  recently  come  over  to  conquer 
Rome  from  Monte  Video,  and  who  were  reported  to  be  richer 
than  the  richest  heiresses  of  the  United  States,  but  who  un- 
luckily were  married ;  three  or  four  smart  young  Italian  aris- 
tocrats of  highly  inflammatory  temperament,  especially  when 
exotic  good  looks  were  framed  in  a  golden  aureole ;  her  husband, 
and  a  Scotch  woman,  whom  she  thought  as  absurd  as  a  wild 
boar,  but  whose  granite-like  beauty  he  professed  to  admire. 
And  at  the  last  moment  —  why,  perhaps,  she  herself  hardly 
knew  —  she  had  added  Giosue  Pacci  to  her  caravansary.  She 
had  met  him  at  the  Cannynges.  Perhaps  she  thought  him  dif- 
ferent enough  from  her  usual  intimates  to  be  chic  when  in  their 
midst,  like  the  touch  of  black  that  makes  of  an  ordinary  colored 
gown  a  "  creation." 

Why  Pacci  had  accepted  her  invitation  she  could  not  con- 
ceive. But  in  our  dreams  do  we  not  accept  all  manner  of  pre- 
posterous propositions  ? 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  129 

"  Pace!  in  that  galere!"  murmured  Doctor  Ides,  perceiving 
the  historian  who  was  gazing  at  the  pageant  of  daffodils  with 
his  innocent  looking  eyes.     "And  this  is  the  Risorgimento!  " 

"  If  you  want  to  understand  it  still  more  completely,"  said 
Lady  Sarah,  smiling  good-humoredly,  yet  speaking  with  a  touch 
of  satire,  "  you  should  go  to-morrow  morning  to  the  Sala 
Pichetti." 

"  What  happens  there,  Sally?  " 

"  Princes  and  senators  tumble  down.  They  are  all  learning 
to  skate  on  rollers.  Later  on  there  are  going  to  be  roller  skat- 
ing parties  in  some  of  the  old  palaces." 

"  Autres  temps,  autres  moeurs!"  said  the  doctor,  taking 
refuge  in  a  platitude.  "  Suppress  me,  Sally,  if  I  become  bro- 
mide." 

He  devoted  himself  to  his  dinner. 

After  a  moment  he  said :    "  The  daffodil  party  interests  me." 

"  Does  it?  Just  now  you  spoke  of  seeing  many  sad  faces  in 
such  places  as  this.  Can  you  pick  me  out  the  two  faces  of 
perfectly  happy  people  in  the  daffodil  party?     There  are  two." 

"Perfectly  happy?"  said  Doctor  Ides,  with  a  gentle  in- 
credulity. 

"  It  seems  impossible.  And  yet  I  really  believe  I  am  not 
exaggerating." 

Doctor  Ides  looked  slowly  round  the  circle  of  talking  people. 

"  Pacci  perhaps  is  Number  One." 

"Oh,  Pacci!  I  had  forgotten  him.  He  may  be  perfectly 
happy,  but  I  cannot  judge  of  him.     He  is  too  evasive  for  me." 

"  There  are  two  others !  " 

After  a  minute  or  two  he  said : 

"That  lady  in  green  and  white,  perhaps?" 

"  Yes,  she  is  one.  Edna  Denzil,  is  her  name.  Now  —  the 
other?" 

There  was  a  long  pause.     Then  Doctor  Ides  said : 

"  I  cannot  find  him." 

"  How  do  you  know  it  is  a  man  ?  " 

"  Because  it  is  obviously  not  any  one  of  the  women." 

"And  the  little  lady  in  yellow?"  said  Lady  Sarah,  indicat- 
ing Countess  Boccara. 

"  No  woman  can  be  perfectly  happy  with  such  a  waist.  It 
is  physiologically  impossible.  Which  man  is  it?  One  of  those 
Italian  youths,  no  doubt.     But  which?  " 

"  It  is  that  man  with  the  big  forehead,"  said  Lady  Sarah, 
drau'ing  her  brother-in-law's  attention  to  Francis  Denzil. 


130  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Doctor  Ides  looked  steadily  at  Denzil. 

"  Are  you  astonished  ?  "  asked  Ladv  Sarah  at  length. 

"Who  is  he?" 

"  The  husband  of  the  perfectly  happy  woman." 

"H'm!" 

The  doctor  continued  to  look  at  Denzil  fixedly.  Apparently 
the  happy  man  interested  him.  As  he  did  not  speak  Lady 
Sarah  went  on  talking,  and  gave  him  a  brief  but  very  sympa- 
thetic sketch  of  the  Denzil  menage. 

"  And  now,  to  crown  everything,"  she  concluded,  "  he  is 
going  to  Munich  as  Minister.  It  was  made  public  yesterday. 
And  he  is  only  about  forty." 

Again  there  was  a  silence.     Then  Doctor  Ides  said : 

"  Why  does  he  put  his  lips  so  close  to  the  faces  of  the  women 
on  each  side  of  him?     They  surely  can't  both  be  deaf." 

"  Oh  no.  That  is  only  because  he's  had  a  bad  cold.  It 
has  almost  taken  away  his  voice." 

The  doctor  withdrew  his  eyes  from  Denzil  and  fL^ed  them 
upon  his  sister-in-law. 

"  Colds  are  going  about  in  Rome  this  year,"  she  added. 

"  Ah !  "  said  the  doctor. 

"  What  is  the  matter,  Mervyn  ?  " 

"  Nothing,  Sally." 

He  paused,  then,  as  if  speaking  with  a  slight  effort,  and 
not  quite  naturally,  he  continued: 

"  It  was  always  so.  When  the  spring  comes  in,  Rome  greets 
her  with  a  sneeze.  That  sneeze  at  least  is  not  banished  amid 
all  the  changes.  What  do  you  think  of  this  plat?  I  ordered 
it  specially.     Can  you  guess  what  it  has  in  it?  " 

"  There  seems  a  suggestion  —  it  is  as  if  a  fairy  oyster  had 
glided  by  when  it  was  being  cooked." 

"  And  had  been  persuaded  to  join  the  company  of  ingredi- 
ents. You  might  have  been  an  epicure,  Sally.  You  have  a 
sensitive  palate." 

The  doctor  kept  up  the  conversation,  but  it  had  ceased  to 
be  quite  intimate,  quite  easy  going.  Lady  Sarah  wondered  why 
the  sight  of  Francis  Denzil  had  affected  her  brother-in-law's 
spirits.  The  two  men  were  not  even  acquaintances.  But  per- 
haps she  was  astray.  Perhaps  Denzil  had  nothing  to  do  with 
the  abrupt  depression  which  she  divined  beneath  the  doctor's 
now  rather  unusual  animation. 

When  they  had  finished  dinner  he  said: 

"  Shall  we  have  coffee  in  the  hall !  " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  131 

"  I  never  take  it.     I'm  afraid  of  lying  awake  at  night." 

He  looked  at  her  with  sympathy. 

"  I  know.  The  besieging  memories.  But  to-night  I  must 
have  it.  And  we  can  look  at  the  crowd.  I  believe  I  have  the 
boy  in  me  still.     It  quite  amuses  me." 

"  Let  us  go  and  take  up  a  good  position." 

They  went  out,  and  sat  down  at  a  little  table  in  the  hall, 
on  the  left  just  below  the  steps.  The  Doctor  ordered  his 
coffee  and  lit  a  cigar. 

"  This  is  holiday-making  indeed,"  he  said,  leaning  back  In 
his  deep  armchair.  "  But  I  am  so  unaccustomed  to  holidays 
that  I  haven't  quite  got  into  the  right  frame  of  mind  yet.  I 
don't  feel  desultory  enough." 

"  Wait  till  you've  had  a  day  in  the  Campagna." 

"  I'll  get  a  motor,  Sally.  We'll  go  to  Caprerola,  or  by 
Albano  and  Velletri  to  beautiful  Ninfa,  with  its  tower  above 
the  water,  and  on  to  Sermoneta.     What  do  you  say  ?  " 

"  I  should  love  it." 

Since  they  had  left  the  dining-room  he  had  returned  to  his 
former  manner.  Nevertheless  Lady  Sarah  had  a  conviction 
that  he  was  on  the  watch,  that  his  mind  was  working  on  a  line 
of  thought  not  connected  with  what  he  was  saying. 

A  little  woman  in  a  tight  mauve  gown,  and  wearing  an 
immense  black  hat,  with  a  panache  of  mauve  feathers  which 
mounted  towards  the  ceiling,  as  if  desirous  of  translation,  ap- 
peared at  the  top  of  the  steps  followed  by  two  stout  men, 
obviously  Jews.  Very  slowly,  walking  from  the  hips,  and  look- 
ing insolent  and  dull,  she  descended  and  moved,  like  one  in  a 
procession,  to  a  table  not  far  off. 

"Grand  Marnier!"  she  observed  to  one  of  the  men,  as  if 
speaking  to  a  slave. 

Then  sitting  down,  and  drawing  the  tail  of  her  gown  around 
her  feet,  she  became  absolutely  expressionless  and  remained 
silent. 

"  Difficult  to  believe  there  Is  a  soul  beneath  that  hat!  "  said 
the  doctor.     "  Here  comes  the  Mancelli !     What  a  difference!  " 

"  Between  the  hat  and  the  Grande  Dame." 

The  Princess  passed,  without  seeing  them.  She  was  talking 
to  Montebruno,  and  some  Russians  who  belonged  to  her  party. 
She  put  up  one  hand  to  the  velvet  strap  which  covered  her 
white  shoulder,  and  gesticulated  with  the  other,  which  held  a 
small  painted  fan. 

"  How  beautifully  she  walks!  "  said  the  doctor.     "  After  all 


132  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

these  j'ears  I  remember  her  way  of  walking.  She  Is  a  wonder- 
fully attractive  woman,  though,  of  course,  she  has  aged.  And 
her  expression  has  changed  a  good  deal,  I  think." 

"  Has  it?     In  what  way?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  full  of  disillusion.  She  used  to  look  like 
a  conqueror,  but  a  very  thoroughbred  one." 

Over  the  bright  rose-colored  carpet  there  was  a  rustle  of 
trailing  gowns.  Groups  formed  about  the  many  tables. 
Women,  sheathed  in  their  clothes,  with  their  hair  arranged  in 
heavy  masses  that  looked  like  caps  pulled  down  over  their  ears 
as  if  to  shield  them  from  frost-bite,  gazed  into  the  eyes  of  the 
men  who  accompanied  them,  searching  for  admiration,  comment, 
the  discriminating  praise  of  the  ardent  masculine  stare.  Two 
old  men,  with  white  beards,  sat  down  to  a  game  of  ecarte  in  a 
corner.  As  they  examined  their  cards,  with  pursed  lips  they 
pushed  up  their  big  cigars,  looking  at  the  same  time  wily  and 
morose.  An  immensely  stout  Grerman  lady,  with  a  topknot  of 
straw-colored  hair,  that  seemed  to  be  trained  over  a  hidden 
mushroom,  uttered  a  loud  "  es  ist  wirklich  ganz  wunderschon  '* 
to  a  red-necked  man,  whose  head  was  the  color  of  ash,  as  she 
threw  complacent  glances  around  her.  A  large  group  of  South 
Americans,  with  lustrous,  unmeaning  eyes,  and  complexions 
touched  with  yellow,  looked  like  perfectly  self-possessed  exiles 
as  they  stared  at  all  these  people,  whose  names  even  were  un- 
known to  them.  Then  they  glanced  at  their  own  fine  jewels, 
elaborate  gowns,  and  sparkling  rings,  and  spoke  together  in 
Spanish.     One  of  them  said,  in  a  loud  and  yet  sleepy  voice: 

"  A^o  hay  que  decir,  hijita;  mas  hermosas  son  las  ChUenas." 

A  Persian  from  the  Ministry  in  the  Via  Varese  looked  at 
her  with  secretive  eyes,  as  he  went  by  towards  the  outer  hall, 
walking  gently  and  quickly  in  his  patent  leather  shoes.  Pres- 
ently a  crowd  of  men,  nearly  all  of  them  elderly  and  expres- 
sive, some  very  old  and  almost  tragically  thoughtful-looking,  ap- 
peared at  the  top  of  the  steps,  where  they  stood  for  a  minute 
talking  together,  and  glancing  down  at  the  butterflies  whose 
bright  eyes  were  turned  curiously  towards  them.  A  murmur 
of:  "The  Belgian  Mission!  Martizelli  has  been  giving  a  din- 
ner for  them !  "  went  through  the  room,  as  the  gray  and  white- 
haired  diplomats,  courtiers,  politicians  and  litterateurs  rather 
hesitatingly  descended  and  made  their  way  to  a  great  circle  of 
empty  chairs  arranged  round  a  circle  of  coffee-cups  and  liqueur 
glasses.  They  sat  down,  perhaps  with  the  intention  of  dis- 
cussing great  affairs.     But  the  presence  of  the  butterflies  evi- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  133 

dently  distracted  them  not  a  little.  They  looked  distrait,  and 
yet  intent,  almost  like  boys  gazing  through  the  bars  of  a  grille 
into  a  garden  of  Paradise.  When  they  had  finished  their  coffee 
two  or  three  of  them  got  up  vaguely.  Others  followed  their 
example. 

A  handsome  young  under-secretary  spoke  into  the  ear  of 
one  of  them,  a  very  old  bald-headed  man,  who  nodded  em- 
phatically in  response.  The  secretary  took  him  gently  by  the 
arm,  led  him  up  to  a  beautiful  Roman  and  presented  him. 
Then  the  spell  v/as  broken,  and  the  butterflies  came  into  their 
own.  White-haired  and  wrinkled  distinction,  learning,  and 
pov/er  devoted  themselves  to  the  service  of  charm,  and  the  two 
vanities  of  the  intellect  and  of  the  epidermis  —  or  was  it  really 
of  the  soul  ?  —  softly  flattered  each  other. 

"  The  daffodils  are  the  last  to  come,"  said  the  doctor. 

"  Do  you  care  to  know  any  of  them,  Mervyn  ?  "  asked  Lady 
Sarah. 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  certain  open  curiosity.  Perhaps 
it  was  that  look  which  determined  him  to  say: 

"  Yes,  Sally.  If  you  have  an  opportunity  you  might  intro- 
duce me  to  the  happy  man." 

She  thought  she  detected  a  nuance  of  almost  sad  irony  in 
his  voice  as  he  spoke  the  final  words. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you  doubt "  she  began. 

"  No,  no.     But,  if  you  want  another  bromide,  remember  the 

saying,    '  Call   thou   no   man   happy  till ' "   he  broke  ofi, 

*'  Ah!  here  they  come!  "  he  said. 

A  table  close  to  where  they  were  sitting  had  been  kept  for 
the  Countess  Boccara's  party,  which  now  came  down  the  steps 
and  mingled  v/ith  groups  in  the  immediate  vicinity. 

Countess  Boccara  was  in  gay  spirits.  Only  that  morning 
her  dressm.aker  had  informed  her  that  her  waist  was  still  shrink- 
ing. Seventeen  inches  seemed  to  be  almost  within  her  reach 
and  her  mischievous  dinner  had  been  a  success.  She  knew  well 
that  everybody  had  been  talking  about  her,  and  it.  And  the 
Mancelli  had  been  sitting  just  opposite  to  Cesare,  who  had 
been  placed  beside  Lady  Cannynge.  Neither  the  Princess  nor 
Cesare  had  shown  a  trace  of  embarrassment,  but  the  Countess 
had  a  comfortable  and  thorough  knowledge  of  her  sex.  She 
knew  very  well  what  "  Cara  Lisetta  "  must  have  been  feeling. 
As  to  Cesare,  she  was  obliged  to  confess  to  herself  that  she  did 
not  quite  understand  him.  So  far  this  season  he  had  not  made 
himself  conspicuous  with  Lady  Cannynge  or  with  any  one  else. 


134  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Since  the  day  of  her  little  dinner  for  the  most  beautiful  per- 
son in  Rome  she  was  not  aware  of  any  crescendo.  And  at  this 
moment  Cesare  was  sitting  down  by  one  of  the  sultry-looking 
women  from  Monte  Video,  while  Lady  Cannynge  was  talking 
to  the  "  old  lady  who  knows  Rome."  Countess  Boccara  ac- 
knowledged to  herself  that  the  old  lady  managed  to  look  quite 
passable,  even  rather  distinguished,  in  the  evening.  The  mix- 
ture of  amber  and  white  in  her  curiously  arranged,  or  disar- 
ranged, hair  was  certainly  novel  and  effective.  But  why 
should  Dolores  Cannynge ? 

At  this  point  in  the  Countess's  reflections  she  was  encircled 
by  young  men  and  began  to  think  of  herself. 

Meanwhile  Lady  Sarah  had  introduced  her  brother-in-law  to 
the  Cannynges  and  the  Denzils.  Sir  Theodore  remembered 
him  at  once,  and  kept  him  for  a  few  minutes  in  a  conversation 
that  took  them  back  to  "  the  old  daj'S "  of  a  few  years  ago. 
Then  Lady  Sarah  deliberately  broke  in,  and  engaged  Sir  Theo- 
dore's attention.  Denzil  was  close  to  the  doctor,  and  at  the 
moment  was  speaking  to  no  one.  A  waiter  came  up  with  a 
pile  of  cigar  boxes  on  a  salver  and  lifted  the  lid  of  the  box  on 
the  top  of  the  pile,  displaying  a  row  of  fat  yellow-brown  Ha- 
vanas.  Denzil  stared  at  them  for  a  moment,  then  shook  his 
head.  The  waiter  was  about  to  open  another  box  when  Den- 
zil said  almost  in  a  whisper: 

"  Pas  de  cigares!  " 

They  were  standing.  There  were  two  armchairs  close  to 
them.  As  he  spoke  the  doctor  sat  down  and  Denzil 
followed  his  example,  while  the  waiter  went  off,  gliding 
with  a  practiced  agility  among  the  multitudes  of  people  and 
tables. 

In  some  hidden  place  near  the  top  of  the  steps  a  newly  ar- 
rived Hungarian  orchestra  began  to  play.  One  violin  soared 
above  the  rest,  delivering  with  passionate  sentiment  a  melody 
that  suggested  a  nature  ravaged  by  love.  Many  heads  turned 
towards  the  stairs,  and  many  conversations  ceased  for  a  moment. 

A  feminine  voice  said : 

"  How  delightful !  Some  one's  given  SchizzI  a  bottle  of 
champagne.  He's  beginning  really  to  play.  Don't  you  feel 
how  it  goes  to  the  spine?" 

"  I'm  afraid  I  generally  smoke  too  much,"  Denzil  said,  in 
reply  to  the  doctor's  question. 

He  pressed  his  feet  on  the  carpet  and  moved  his  chair  close 
to  the  doctor's. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  135 

"  You  must  forgive  my  croaking,  I've  caught  a  cold  and  it's 
settled  in  my  throat." 

"  A  nuisance!  " 

"  Yes." 

He  leaned  to  the  doctor  to  make  himself  heard. 

"  I  shall  get  off  to  Frascati  for  a  change  in  three  days.  It's 
extraordinary  air  up  there.  It  ought  to  blow  all  this  hoarse- 
ness away.  I  should  go  to-morrow,  but  my  little  son  has  his 
birthday  on  Thursday,  and  we  are  going  to  have  festivities." 

He  smiled,  losing  his  fixed  look. 

"How  old  is  he?" 

"  On  Thursday  he  will  be  nine." 

"  At  that  period  of  life  birthdays  are  almost  terrific  occa- 
sions.    You  haven't  seen  a  doctor  for  your  cold  ?  " 

"  Oh  no.     It  wasn't  worth  while." 

"You  hate  us  probably.     Is  that  it?" 

"  I  have  no  reason  to  hate  doctors." 

"  Perhaps  you  know  very  little  about  us!  " 

"  I  must  confess  I've  been  lucky  so  far.  Since  I  was  a 
brat  I've  never  known  what  it  was  to  feel  an  ache  or  pain.  By 
Jove,  I  wish  I  could  have  a  cigar," 

The  waiter  with  the  pile  of  boxes  was  again  passing  not 
far  off. 

"  Doctor,"  Denzil  added,  huskily,  "  will  you  allow  me  to 
call  you  in  ?  " 

The  waiter  stopped  before  a  party  of  Americans. 

"As  a  throat  specialist  or  as  a  general  practitioner?"  asked 
Doctor  Ides. 

"  A  throat  specialist.     Are  you  one?  " 

"  To  be  sure." 

"  All  the  better  then.  Won't  you  give  me  permission  to 
smoke  to-night?  If  you  do,  my  dragon  of  a  wife  can't  say  a 
word." 

"  You  can  have  a  cigar," 

"Capital!" 

Denzil  held  up  his  hand  to  summon  the  waiter. 

"  But  on  one  condition,"  added  the  doctor. 

"What  is  it?" 

"  That  you  let  me  examine  your  throat  and  prescribe  for 
you  to-morrow  morning.  I've  come  out  here  for  a  holiday. 
But  I  may  be  able  to  do  something  for  you  —  possibly." 

Denzil  turned  slightly  in  his  chair,  and  looked  very  hard  at 
the  doctor. 


136  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  It  is  very  kind  of  you  to  bother  about  me,"  he  said,  al- 
most in  a  whisper.  "  My  throat  seems  to  be  quite  giving  out 
to-night." 

"  Come  to  the  hotel  at  half-past  ten  to-morrow,  and  I'll 
have  a  look  at  you." 

"  I  will,  if  you  really  think " 

"  And  oblige  me  by  not  telling  any  one  you  are  coming  to 
see  me  professionally,  not  even  your  wife.  You  see  with  all 
this  crowd  in  Rome  there  may  be  some  others  who  are  hoarse. 
My  name  is  pretty  well  known  as  a  throat  doctor  among 
Americans  as  well  as  English.  And  I'm  here  to  take  a  holi- 
day, as  I  told  you." 

"  I  won't  say  a  word.     It's  very  good  of  you." 

"  Not  at  all.     Now  enjoy  your  cigar." 

"  I  really  believe  Schizzi  must  have  had  two  bottles  of 
champagne,"  said  the  female  voice  which  had  spoken  of  the 
effect  of  Hungarian  music  upon  the  human  spine.  "  I  never 
heard  him  play  with  such  meaning  before.  It's  too  lovely  and 
affecting.     It  makes  one  want  I  don't  know  what!  " 

Cesare's  black  eyes  turned  from  the  phenomena  from  Monte 
Video  and  fixed  themselves  on  Dolores.  Denzil  looked  straight 
before  him.  The  glance  of  the  doctor  traveled  from  the  happy 
man  to  his  wife,  the  perfectly  happy  woman.  In  the  distance, 
athwart  the  crowd  of  chattering  and  laughing  people.  Prin- 
cess Mancelli,  who  had  turned  her  head,  as  if  carelessly  watch- 
ing the  pageant  about  which  she  was  lightly  talking  to  a  mem- 
ber of  the  Belgian  Mission,  saw  the  man  who  had  been  her 
lover  gazing  at  Lady  Cannynge.  Montebruno,  slowly  moving 
his  blood-shot  eyes,  looked  from  one  woman  to  another,  from 
one  man  to  another,  with  his  strange  and  unchanging  melan- 
choly. 

Edna  Denzil  watched  her  Franzi.  She  saw  the  cigar.  But 
she  was  not  shocked.  She  thought:  ''Dear  old  Franzi!  Let 
him  have  his  little  pleasure  to-night." 

And  Schizzi,  inspired  perhaps  by  champagne,  played  on. 
He  had  come  out  from  his  hiding-place  now,  and  he  stood  near 
the  top  of  the  steps  leaning  towards  the  little  world  just  below 
him.  With  the  wand  of  his  music  he  touclied  it.  And  som.e 
of  its  dreams,  that  till  then  had  been  as  the  mist  that  drifts 
over  dew,  trembled  into  a  fragile  being.  And  some  of  its  hopes 
awoke,  and  some  of  its  bitter  regrets,  and  some  of  its  mysteri- 
ous apprehensions,  and  some  of  its  definite  fears.  Behind  many 
of  the  masks  could  be  seen  for  a  moment,  like  a  shadow,  a 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  137 

face  that  was  surely  the  face  of  truth,  in  many  of  the  eyes  a 
light  that  was  surely  a  reflection  of  a  marvelous  light  at  a 
distance. 

Giosue  PaccI  looked  round  him  slowly,  and  murmured  to 
himself  the  words  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci: 

"  Piu  e  grande  la  sensibllita,  piu  e  forte  il  dolore.  Grande 
Martire !     Grande  Martire !  " 


CHAPTER  XI 

The  next  morning,  without  saying  a  word  to  his  wife,  Denzil 
went  to  the  Grand  Hotel  and  asked  for  Doctor  Mervyn  Ides. 
It  was  half-past  ten,  and  he  was  shown  up  at  once  into  the 
doctor's  sitting-room,  which  was  flooded  with  sunshine,  and  gay 
with  flowers  arranged  by  Lady  Sarah,  who  was  happy  to  have 
someone  to  look  after  and  think  about.  As  Denzil  entered  at 
one  door  Doctor  Ides  came  in  from  his  bedroom  by  another, 
smiling. 

"  You  are  a  punctual  man,"  he  said,  holding  out  his  hand. 
"  Now  let  me  have  a  look  at  your  throat  and  see  if  I  can  get  rid 
of  this  hoarseness." 

"  If  you  can  banish  it,  or  diminish  it  by  Thursday,"  Denzil 
almost  whispered,  "  I  shall  be  very  grateful  to  you.  I  want  to 
be  up  to  the  mark  on  my  boy's  birthday." 

"Thursday!  To  be  sure!  Sit  down  in  this  chair,  will 
you?" 

The  doctor  went  to  close  the  window. 

Meanwhile  in  a  certain  flat  in  the  Via  Venti  Settembre  ex- 
citement was  rising  in  a  crescendo  such  as  might  have  satisfied 
even  the  Countess  Boccara.  The  day  after  to-morrow  Theo 
was  to  be  nine!  This  fact,  and  the  circumstances  which  were 
to  glorify  it,  obsessed  the  three  children.  They  thought  of, 
spoke  of,  lived  for,  nothing  else.  Theo  was  full  of  the  legiti- 
mate pride  of  one  who  by  length  of  days  is  entitled  to  tribute. 
His  little  sisters'  souls  danced  with  proud  pleasure  in  the 
generous  power  of  giving.  In  two  days  Theo  was  to  sit  in  a 
special  chair,  dressed  in  a  new,  and  very  grown-up  suit,  and  to 
be  reverently  approached  by  his  father  and  mother,  Marianna, 
Concetta,  and  themselves  —  a  tribe  of  parcel  carriers.  In 
fancy  they  already  beheld  his  astonished  delight  at  the  results 
of  their  cogitations,  and  long  and  secret  perambulations  of  the 


138  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Rome  that  is  occupied  by  shops.  The  time  lagged,  yet  not  a 
moment  was  without  its  thrill.  In  the  most  deadly  mystery, 
and  with  elaborate  precautions,  parcels  were  tied  up  only  to  be 
untied.  Iris  inflexibly  kept  the  kitchen  door  while  Viola  was 
initiated  into  the  rites  connected  with  the  preparation  of  a 
birthday  cake.  Then  the  tiny  Viola,  with  a  puny  attempt  at 
warrior-like  fierceness,  stood  on  guard,  judiciously  flanked  by 
Marianna,  while  Iris  stirred  a  mess  which  Concetta,  the  cook, 
faithfully  promised,  on  the  head  of  her  mamma,  a  lady  with  a 
heavy  moustache  who  kept  a  species  of  wine-shop  in  Trastevere, 
would  eventually  stand  firm  wrapped  in  a  mantle  of  glittering 
sugar.  Theo  was  a  happy,  yet  at  moments  envious  exile,  per- 
petually being  put  out  of  rooms,  and  firmly  excluded  from  par- 
ticipation in  extraordinary  proceedings  closely  connected  with 
himself.  He  was  "  not  to  see,"  he  was  to  turn  his  head  "  the 
other  way."  If  he  emerged  unexpectedly  into  the  passage  he 
was  greeted  with  shrieks  of  protest,  and  a  dropping  of  objects 
the  nature  of  which  he  strove  hard  to  determine  by  the  sound 
of  their  impact  with  the  floor.  If  he  went  innocently  towards 
a  corner  a  cry  of  "  you  mustn't  go  there,  Theo !  "  w^arned  him 
of  presences  whose  identity  only  Thursday  must  reveal  to  him. 
He  suffered  delicious  pangs. 

Fortunately  he  had  matters  of  the  gravest  Importance  on 
hand  himself,  which  left  him  but  little  time  to  concentrate  on 
his  martyrdom.  He  was  preparing  a  surprise  for  his  father, 
with  the  careful  assistance  of  his  mother  as  coach. 

Mrs.  Denzil  was  not  fond  of  *'  showing  off "  her  children, 
but  she  believed  in  developing  any  budding  talents  little  human 
beings  displayed.  Theo,  at  this  time,  gave  evidence  of  a  dra- 
matic instinct  unusual  in  a  child  of  his  age.  He  had  a  good 
memory,  and  enjoyed  learning  bits  of  Shakespeare  and  short 
poems  by  heart,  and  was  not  ashamed  to  repeat  them  with  a 
boyish  attempt  at  giving  them  what  he  supposed  to  be  their  real 
emotional  value.  Till  now  his  hearers  had  been  fit  but  few 
—  his  mother,  sisters,  Marianna,  and  once  or  twice  Signor 
Carpi,  an  Italian  teacher  who  gave  him  lessons  in  rudimentary 
Latin. 

Denzil  had  heard  of  these  efforts,  with  a  smile.  But  Edna, 
who  believed  in  an  aim,  had  held  in  check  the  perhaps  faint 
curiosity  of  her  husband,  with  a  reiterated  "  some  day  when 
Theo's  come  on  more!  "  And  this  same  "  some  day  "  had  been 
put  before  Theo  as  a  goal  to  be  won  by  effort.  Now  it  had 
been  secretly  settled  between  Theo  and  his  mother  that  the  goal 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  139 

should  be  won  on  his  birthday,  and  the  two  pieces  chosen  for 
the  great  occasion  were  being  anxiously  prepared  behind  closed 
doors.  One  was  the  speech  by  the  King  at  the  beginning 
of  the  third  act  of  Shakespeare's  King  Henry  the  Fifth: 
"Once  more  into  the  breach,  dear  friends,  once  more";  the 
other  Tennyson's  "  Crossing  the  Bar,"  which  was  one  of  Edna's 
favorite  poems.  These  were  not  to  be  repeated  in  the  evening, 
when  there  was  to  be  a  party  of  the  children's  friends,  but 
in  the  intimacy  of  the  family  circle  after  the  present-giving, 
before  the  cutting  of  the  birthday  cake. 

So  Theo  studied  as  if  his  life  depended  upon  it,  and  had  his 
important  reason  for  keeping  people  out  of  rooms  and  telling 
them  not  to  listen.  The  Shakespeare  he  had  taken  to  with 
all  his  soul.  Although  he  was  so  courteous  and  considerate 
of  others,  anything  fiery  and  pugnacious  woke  up  in  him  some- 
thing responsive,  that  set  his  blood  leaping  and  lit  up  his  brown 
eyes.  But  the  Tenn}-son  had  at  first  knocked  at  his  door  and 
had  but  a  feeble  answer. 

On  the  morning  when  Denzil  visited  Doctor  Ides,  Edna  and 
little  Theo  were  closeted  together.  The  Shakespeare  speech 
was  delivered  with  intense  earnestness,  and  passed  with  a 
"  Capital !  Father  will  be  surprised !  "  But  when  "  Crossing 
the  Bar  "  had  been  spoken,  Edna  sat  for  a  minute  in  silence. 
She  thought  that  perhaps  she  had  made  a  mistake  in  choosing  it 
for  a  boy  of  nine  to  recite.  She  had  yielded  to  her  own  prefer- 
ence without  thinking  enough  of  Theo.  Patriotism  roused  up 
the  male  in  her  son,  but  death  perhaps  only  confused  him.  For 
a  moment  she  rebuked  herself,  and  considered  whether  it  would 
not  perhaps  be  best  to  be  content  with  the  Shakespeare,  and  to 
let  the  Tennyson  go. 

"What's  the  matter,  mums?  Don't  I  do  it  right?"  said 
Theo  anxiously. 

His  mother  looked  up  at  him. 

"  Not  so  well  as  the  other." 

"  Let  me  try  again."  He  clenched  his  hands,  and  his  lower 
jaw  trembled  slightly.     "  I  will  get  it,  but  it  is  difficult." 

"  I  expect  you  don't  quite  understand  it." 

The  question  rising  in  her  mind  was,  "  Do  I  wish  him  to 
understand  it?  " 

"  Wait  a  moment,  Theo!  "  she  added. 

He  stood,  gazing  at  her  with  his  bright  and  eager  eyes,  full 
of  confidence  in  her  power  and  will  to  help  him.  After  a 
pause  she  continued : 


140  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  It's  like  this.  When  we  are  small  we  want  a  lot  of  help 
from  people.  Viola  is  smaller  than  j^ou,  and  wants  more  help 
than  3'OU  do." 

"  I  should  rather  think  she  does,  mums!  "  Theo  interpolated, 
with  a  conviction  that  sounded  almost  injured. 

"  But  however  big  and  however  old  we  get  we  always  need 
help,  every  one  of  us,     I  do,  father  does,  for  instance." 

"Does  father?" 

"  Yes.  We  need  the  pilot.  Ships,  you  know,  must  have  a 
pilot  to  bring  them  safe  into  port,  some  one  who  understands 
the  currents,  the  channel,  where  the  sandbanks  are,  and  where 
there's  deep  good  water  that  will  take  the  ship  safely.  We 
all  make  a  voyage  through  life.  But  that  isn't  everything. 
When  we  grow  old  certainly,  and  it  may  be  long  before  that, 
we  have  to  make  another  voyage.  We  don't  live  down  here 
forever." 

"  I  see!  "  interjected  Theo  gravely. 

"  And  when  the  moment  comes  to  start  —  well,  we  do  want  a 
helping  hand  then,  most  awfully." 

"I  should  think  so!"  said  Theo,  still  with  solemnity  but 
without  any  fear. 

"  We  can't  take  any  one  or  anything  with  us.  We  just  have 
to  nip  off  alone.  But  across  the  bar  there'll  be  some  one  to  look 
after  us,  take  charge  of  us,  guide  us  across  the  water  to  the 
port  we're  bound  for.     You  know  who  that  is !  " 

"Is  it  God?" 

"  That's  what  we  believe,  and  that's  what  Tennyson  believed 
when  he  wrote  this  piece.  He  was  an  old  man  then,  but  you 
see  he  wanted  the  helping  hand,  just  as  I  should,  or  father 
would,  if  we  had  to  be  off." 

Theo  stood  in  silence  for  a  minute.     Then  he  said, 

"  I  sav,  mums !  " 

"  Well  ?  " 

"  I  do  jolly  Vv^ell  hope  none  of  us'll  have  to  go  for  ever  so 
ions." 

"So  do  I!" 

Mrs.  Denzil  was  not  highly  imaginative,  she  was  very  happy 
and  she  spoke  quite  seriously,  even  earnestly;  but  she  was 
governed  by  a  feeling,  unreasonable  enough  yet  very  prevalent 
in  the  ranks  of  the  happy,  a  feeling  that  things  must  last  as 
they  were  with  her.  As  the  miserable  and  unfortunate  feel 
dedicated  to  distress,  so  do  the  joyous  feel  dedicated  to  joy. 
Edna  Denzil  was  conscious  of  a  warm  sensation  of  safety,  and 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  141 

of  trust  in  the  Great  Someone  outside,  beyond,  who  had  the 
power  to  surround  her  with  blessed  security. 

"  Now,  Theo,  old  boy,  try  again!  "  she  added.  "  And  think 
of  what  we've  been  talking  about,  that  even  a  man  like  father 
becomes  almost  as  little  Viola  in  the  moment  of  crossing  the 
bar.  Think  of  what  he  needs,  and  what  he  believes  he  will 
have." 

"  It  says  '  I  know,'  mums!  "  observed  Theo,  with  a  question- 
ing look  in  his  eyes. 

"  What  he  knows  he  will  have,"  his  mother  corrected  her- 
self. 

And  Theo  tried  again  and  did  very  much  better. 

In  the  Denzil  household  they  lunched  at  half-past  twelve, 
but  that  day,  when  the  half-hour  struck,  Denzil  had  not  re- 
turned. Edna  waited  ten  minutes,  wondering  a  little  what  had 
become  of  her  husband.  She  was  just  getting  up  to  go  alone 
into  the  dining-room,  supposing  that  he  must  have  been  detained 
by  some  sudden  business  at  the  Embassy  when  there  was  a  ring 
at  the  bell.  In  a  moment  Beppo,  the  manservant,  came  in  with 
a  note.     It  was  from  Denzil. 

"  Dearest  Ed, — I  shan't  be  back  for  lunch  —  kept  by 
some  business.  I'm  sorry  I  couldn't  let  you  know  sooner. 
Blessings  on  you  and  the  brats. 

Yr  Franzi." 

Edna  held  this  note  very  close  to  her  face,  then  took  it  away 
and  looked  at  Beppo,  who  stood  near  the  door,  with  a  calmly 
serious  expression  on  his  rather  large  and  much-shaved  coun- 
tenance. 

"  Who  brought  it,  Beppo?  " 

"  Carlino,  signora," 

Carlino  was  a  page  in  Sir  Theodore's  service. 

"  Davvero!     You  can  bring  in  lunch." 

Again  she  held  the  note  near  to  her  eyes. 

"  How  awfully  illegible  dear  old  Franzi  is  getting,"  she 
thought,  as  she  examined  his  "  blessings  on  you  and  the  brats," 

Beppo  left  the  room,  with  his  sharp  turn  on  the  heels  and 
slightly  strutting  gait,  but  she  did  not  follow  him  immediately. 
She  knew  not  why,  but  as  she  gazed  at  her  husband's  downward 
tending  scrawl,  and  smudgy  signature,  a  peculiar  and  almost 
fierce  tenderness  filled  her  heart.  Suddenly  her  imagination 
awoke,  and  the  meaning  of  possession  and  the  meaning  of  loss 


142  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

sprang  up  quivering  in  her  mind.  Her  conversation  with  little 
Theo  came  to  her  memory  and  her  comfortable  "  So  do  I !  " 
in  response  to  his  boyish  expression  of  hope.  How  sluggish 
she  had  been  then!  Franzi  and  the  brats!  What  would  life 
be  without  them?  What  would  she  be  if  they  were  to  cross 
the  bar  before  her,  without  her? 

"  Lunch  is  ready,  signora,"  observed  Beppo,  putting  in  his 
head. 

Edna  Denzil  started. 

"  I'm  coming." 

She  went  slowly  to  the  dining-room  carrying  her  husband's 
scrawl  in  her  hand.  And  she  propped  it  up  against  a  pepper- 
pot  and  looked  at  it  while  she  ate. 

That  morning  Sir  Theodore  went  out  riding  with  the  French 
Ambassador  and  saw  some  flying  at  Centocelle.  The  weather 
was  brilliant,  the  horses  were  in  great  spirits.  A  good  gallop, 
and  the  sight  of  a  man  winging  his  way  towards  the  Alban 
mountains,  while  the  swarthy  carrettieri  dei  Ccstelli  in  the  wine 
carts  stared  from  their  hooded  rooms  with  half-contemptuous, 
half-indignant  eyes,  then  lay  down  to  sleep  again  on  their 
cloaks  and  their  sacks,  had  put  Sir  Theodore  into  unusually 
good-humor.  He  was  still  young  enough,  and  still  healthy 
enough,  to  know  the  sheer  joy  of  the  body,  just  now  and  then 
in  a  favorable  hour,  to  be  dominated  by  it,  and  to  snap  his 
fingers  at  the  melancholy  claims  of  the  mind  and  the  soul. 
Such  an  hour  he  had  just  had  in  the  Campagna,  and  as  he 
walked  lightly  to  his  library  he  hummed  the  delicious  tune  of 
a  Viennese  waltz,  without  thinking,  as  so  often,  "  I  lost 
Vienna."  Feeling  pleasantly  inclined  for  a  few  minutes  of 
rest,  he  sat  down  in  a  big  chair,  stretched  out  his  hand,  and 
laid  hold  of  the  nearest  book.  It  chanced  to  be  Tolstoy's 
Cossacks,  and  he  opened  it  at  the  chapter  where  Uncle 
Jeroshka  takes  Olyenin  for  his  first  hunting  expedition  in  the 
forest  of  the  Caucasus.  As  he  read  he  seemed  to  see  the  dew 
lying  on  the  herbage,  to  smell  the  low-lying  smoke  from  the 
chimneys  of  the  village,  to  hear  the  bark  of  the  eager  dogs, 
and  the  hunter's  invocation,  "To  the  father  and  the  son!  "  as 
the  gun  was  lifted  to  the  shoulder  and  the  finger  found  the 
trigger.  And  again  an  unusually  vital  sense  of  the  joie  de  vivre 
beset  him.  It  was  almost  as  if  a  wind  from,  some  desert  place, 
or  some  rolling  ocean,  blew  on  his  face,  calling  him  from 
meditation,  and  books,  and  the  absurdities  of  society,  to  a  life 
stinging  with  blood  and  strong  with  action. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  143 

A  knock  on  the  door  recalled  him. 

"  Avanti!  "  he  said. 

Carlino,  the  page,  entered.  He  was  a  very  small  boy,  with 
a  close  cropped  head,  sensitive  features,  and  honest,  but  rather 
anxious  dark  eves.     Standing  by  the  door  he  said, 

"II  Signor  benzili!" 

"Signor  Denzil?" 

"  Sissignore." 

"  Bring  him  at  once,  Carlino." 

"  Sissignore." 

"What  an  anxious  expression  that  little  chap  has!"  thought 
Sir  Theodore,  not  for  the  first  time,  as  Carlino  disappeared. 

In  a  moment  he  returned  with  Denzil  coming  slowly  behind 
him. 

"  Good  morning,  Francis.  Stop  to  lunch,  won't  you?  It's 
nearly  time." 

Denzil  gave  his  hand  and  gripped  Sir  Theodore's,  and  there 
was  a  sort  of  fierceness  in  his  grasp  which  almost  startled  his 
friend. 

"  If  I  stay  I  must  write  a  note  to  Ed." 

"  Of  course.     Carlino  will  take  It.       Write  it  here." 

Carlino  remained  by  the  door,  gazing  at  Signor  Denzill, 
while  Denzil  let  himself  down  into  the  revolving  chair  In  front 
of  the  writing  table. 

"  Francis,  my  boy,  your  voice  Is  shocking  this  morning," 
added  Sir  Theodore.  "  You  really  must  be  treated  and  knock 
off  all  smoking  for  a  time.  I  agree  with  Edna,  and  I  shan't 
tempt  you  any  more." 

"  No,"  said  Denzil,  huskily. 

He  leaned  his  left  temple  against  his  left  hand,  took  a  pen, 
and  drew  a  sheet  of  note-paper  towards  him.  Then  he  stared 
at  his  friend,  and  added,  almost  In  a  whisper, 

"  I'm  going  to  be  treated." 

Bending  very  low  over  the  table  he  began  to  write.  He 
changed  the  position  of  his  left  hand,  holding  the  fingers  tightly 
against  his  forehead  and  the  thumb  outstretched  against  his 
cheek.  The  fingers  made  for  the  moment  a  sort  of  penthouse 
shield  above  his  ej'es.  Sir  Theodore  looked  at  him  narrowly, 
then  looked  away. 

"  Is  there  anything  up  with  Francis?  "  he  thought. 

His  mind  went  to  the  Munich  appointment.  Surely  nothing 
could  have  gone  wrong  In  connection  with  that.  He  dismissed 
the  Idea  as  absurd.     Probably  there  had  been  some  business  at 


144  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

the  Embassy  which  had  wearied  Francis,  or  worried  him. 
Lunch,  a  talk,  a  —  no,  not  a  smoke!  —  would  put  him  rij^ht. 

Denzil  thrust  his  note  unevenly  into  an  envelope,  tried  to 
close  it,  failed ;  then  with  an  odd  deliberation  took  the  paper 
out,  smoothed  it  with  care,  adjusted  it  neatly  in  the  envelope, 
shut,  addressed,  and  held  the  envelope  out  to  Carlino,  who 
approached  with  staring  eyes  to  receive  it.  As  soon  as  he  had 
gone  out  Denzil,  leaning  forward  in  his  chair  against  the  writ- 
ing-table, with  his  arms  lying  upon  it,  turned  his  head  towards 
Sir  Theodore,  and  said: 

"  Theo,  come  here,  will  j^ou!  " 

Sir  Theodore  came. 

"What  is  it?     What's  up  with  you,  Francis?" 

"  Sit  down." 

Sir  Theodore  sat  down  in  a  chair  beside  his  friend.  Denzil 
leaned  forward  for  a  moment,  staring  down  at  the  blotting- 
pad  across  which  his  arms  were  laid. 

"  What  the  deuce  can  be  the  matter?  "  thought  Sir  Theodore. 

An  unpleasant  conviction  that  it  was  something  serious,  des- 
perately serious,  took  hold  on  him.     Denzil  looked  up. 

"  Theo,  I've  come  here  to  tell  you  something." 

Again  he  stared  down  at  the  blotting-paper,  on  which  was 
the  pattern  of  his  note  to  his  wife. 

"Yes?" 

*'  Ed  is  not  to  know  —  till  after  Thursday." 

"  What  is  it?     Nothing  bad,  I  hope?  " 

Sir  Theodore  drew  his  chair  closer  to  his  friend. 

"It's  pretty  bad  —  for  me,  and  Ed,  and  the  —  my  —  the 
brats." 

Sir  Theodore  laid  a  hand  on  Denzil's  arm. 

"What  is  it,  Francis?" 

Denzil  put  up  his  hand  and  took  hold  of  his  throat,  and 
kept  his  hand  there. 

"  Something  seriously  wrong  there,  Francis?  " 

Denzil  nodded. 

"  Good  God !     But  —  not  —  not  the  worst  ?  " 

"  The  worst,"  whispered  Denzil. 

Sir  Theodore  sprang  up  and  turned  away. 

"  No,  no!  "  he  muttered.  "  No,  no!  I'm  not  going  to  be- 
lieve that !  " 

He  went  towards  the  window,  stood  still  for  a  moment  and 
came  back. 

"  How  can  you  know?  "  he  asked,  with  an  odd  roughness  in 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  145 

his  manner,  and  an  almost  threatening  sound  in  his  deep  voice. 

"Ides!"  said  Denzil. 

"Mervyn  Ides?" 

Sir  Theodore  felt  something  cold  run  through  him,  almost 
like  a  quick  trickle  of  icy  water. 

"You've  been  to  Mervyn  Ides?     This  morning?" 

"  Yes." 

"  He  examined  you  ?  " 

"Yes.     It's  —  cancer  of  the  larynx." 

There  was  a  long  silence.  Sir  Theodore  broke  it  by  say- 
ing: 

"  What  is  Ides  going  to  do  ?  " 

"Operate  —  Friday  morning." 

Again  the  silence  fell.     At  length  Denzil  said: 

"  Ed's  not  to  know  till  Thursday's  over." 

"Why?" 

"  Theo's  birthday." 

"  Oh,  Francis  —  Francis !  " 

Sir  Theodore's  face  worked. 

"But  you  can't  —  it's  impossible!     No,  Francis — ^no!'* 

"  One  last  day  with  the  brats  happy." 

"  Oh,  Francis,  old  chap!  " 

Sir  Theodore  put  one  arm  almost  awkwardly  round  his 
friend's  shoulder,  took  it  swiftly  away  and  went  out  of  the 
room.  As  he  shut  the  door  he  came  upon  Dolores.  She  had 
just  returned  from  a  walk  with  Lady  Sarah  on  the  Pincio. 

"  Doloretta!  "  he  exclaimed. 

"Theo!"  she  gazed  into  his  face.  "Oh,  Theo!  What  is 
it?" 

He  made  an  effort  so  painful  that  it  seemed  to  drive  the 
blood  away  from  his  heart. 

"Nothing.     Been  walking?" 

"  With  Lady  Sarah." 

"  I've  had  a  gallop.  Savioa  was  flying.  Old  Leonardo 
ought  to  have  been  there  to  see  him  —  right  away  to  the  Alban 
mountains." 

He  turned  and  went  back  into  the  library. 

"  Francis,"  he  said.     "  May  Doloretta  know?" 

"  Before  Ed !  " 

"  He'll  save  you.  Ides  will  save  you.  He's  the  best  man 
there  is.     You've  long  years  before  you." 

"Without  a  larynx?" 

*'  But  —  the  operation  is  for  complete  removal  ?  " 


146  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  don't  know  yet." 

Sir  Theodore  sat  heavily  down. 

Outside  in  the  distance  a  Japanese  gong  sounded  deh'cately. 

"  What  are  we  going  to  do?  "  said  Sir  Theodore. 

The  gong  meant  that  lunch  was  ready.  Dolores  would  be 
waiting.  At  any  moment  she  might  come  into  the  room  with  a 
"  Theo,  aren't  you  coming?  " 

"  I'll  have  lunch,"  whispered  Denzil,  getting  up  from  the 
writing-table. 

"  With  us?     With  Doloretta?  " 

"  It's  the  only  thing.  To  keep  on,  stick  to  the  every-day 
matters,  catch  hold  of  all  I  can." 

"  Of  me,"  said  Sir  Theodore. 

He  drew  Denzil's  arm  through  his  and  they  left  the  room 
together. 

"  Doloretta  will  guess  there  is  something,"  Sir  Theodore 
said  in  a  low,  uneven  voice,  as  they  stood  in  the  next  room. 

"Tell  her  my  throat's  a  bit  sore  then.  Afterwards  —  we'll 
talk  about  Friday  —  I  m.ust  consult  you." 

They  found  Dolores  in  the  farther  room. 

She  greeted  Denzil  with  gentle  cordiality.  She  felt  for  him 
almost  an  affection  now  that  she  knew  he  was  going  away  to 
Munich.  No  one  living  rejoiced  at  his  "  step  "  as  she  did. 
But  she  kept  this  fact  to  herself. 

"  I've  been  buying  a  present  for  little  Theo,"  she  said,  as 
they  went  into  the  dining-room. 

"  Good  of  you!  "  said  Denzil. 

She  looked  round. 

"Your  throat!  "  she  said.  "You  really  must  do  something 
for  it." 

"  I'm  going  to.  It  is  rather  sore.  What  did  you  get  to 
spoil  Theo  with?  " 

"  A  whip.  Yesterday  I  saw  him  proudly  on  a  pony  in  the 
Borghese.  He's  got  quite  a  good  seat  already.  How  he'll  en- 
joy himself  in  the  Englische  Garten  at  Munich." 

Sir  Theodore  frowned. 

Dolores  changed  the  conversation.  She  had  not  meant  to 
upset  her  husband.  Doubtless  he  was  thinking  of  the  lonely 
Rome  when  the  Denzils  were  gone.  But  though  she  quickly 
brought  up  another  topic,  her  lips  tightened  for  a  moment,  and 
an  almost  hard  look  came  into  her  face. 

But  when  the  Denzils  were  gone,  v/hen  they  were  safely 
away,  she  would  make  Theo  forget  the  hours  in  the  Via  Venti 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  147 

Settembre.  Somehow  she  would  teach  him  to  forget.  She  would 
find  the  means.  Does  not  love  give  women  almost  miraculous 
resources?  She  would  win  him  back  to  her.  Once  those  chil- 
dren and  their  mother  were  gone  she  would  reconcile  Theo  to  a 
charming,  intellectual,  cultivated  life  in  which  children  would 
not  be  missed.  How  many  middle-aged  men  there  were  who 
were  quite  contented  in  such  a  life !  And  surely  a  man  can 
forget  in  time  his  dearest  desire  if  only  it  is  not  provoked  per- 
petually by  the  contemplation  of  another's  possession  of  that 
which  he  lacks.  Hitherto,  as  Dolores  knew,  her  efforts  had 
been  in  vain.  The  interesting  people,  the  salon,  bibelots,  pic- 
tures, books,  horses,  hobbies  —  nothing  had  been  of  any  avail. 
But  —  once  the  Denzils  were  gone!  Once  they  were  gone! 
Ah!  how  swiftly  then  would  she  smooth  away  the  frown  from 
Theo's  forehead. 

She  softened  again,  melted  as  she  caught  at  this  hope  with 
resolute  hands.  And,  irresistibly  impelled  to  be  specially  cor- 
dial to  Denzil,  she  put  forth  her  soft  and  sweet  powers  of  a 
very  sensitive  and  feminine  woman,  quite  unselfconsciously, 
acting  indeed  impulsively  out  of  the  promptings  of  her  heart. 
iWhen  she  had  unexpectedly  met  her  husband  before  lunch 
she  had  at  once  seen  that  something  unusual  had  occurred, 
throwing  him  into  an  unusual  condition.  Her  quick  woman's 
curiosity  had  been  roused.  Now  she  flung  it  away  carelessly, 
intent  on  her  own  breath  of  life.  But  the  two  men  were  almost 
startled  by  her  gust  of  sweetness  and  even  of  tenderness.  Den- 
zil stared  across  at  his  friend.  Surely,  in  that  moment  of  ab- 
sence, Theo  had  not  given  Dolores  a  hint  of  his  desperate  need. 
And  Sir  Theodore  looked  at  his  wife,  wondering  whether  some 
intuition  of  the  dreadful  truth  —  which  had  almost  stunned  him, 
and  which  now  made  the  hour  unnatural,  like  an  hour  ticked 
out  by  a  clock  in  some  frightful  dream  —  had  turned  her  heart 
towards  Francis,  made  him  new  in  her  eyes,  as  men  become  to 
sweet  women  when  their  powers  fail  them,  and  the  child  in 
them  appears  stretching  hands  for  succor  to  the  earthly  Provi- 
dence of  their  sex. 

"  Would  it  be  best  to  get  her  to  tell  Ed  ?  " 

The  thought  shot  through  Denzil's  mind. 

"  One  woman  to  another !  " 

Instinctively  he  had  rejected  Theo's  abrupt  suggestion  to  tell 
Dolores  of  the  tragedy  under  which  he  was  now  striving  with 
a  sort  of  benumbed  effort,  sickening  and  lethargic,  but  persist- 
ent, not  to  bend,  cower,  sink  down.     Heats  and  chills  v.-ere 


148  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

shooting  through  his  body.  His  eyelids  and  hands  tingled  at 
moments,  and  he  felt  as  if  only  by  an  exhausting  effort  of  the 
will  he  prevented  perspiration  from  breaking  out  upon  him. 
In  the  Grand  Hotel  he  had  received  the  truth  with  a  calm 
which  had  amazed  himself,  though  not  Doctor  Ides.  When 
things  had  been  talked  over  between  him  and  the  doctor  he 
had  got  away  with  a  quiet  that  was  like  serenity.  In  the  hall 
of  the  hotel  he  had  met  two  ladies  whom  he  knew,  and  one  of 
his  own  colleagues.  He  had  been  able  to  speak  to  them,  to 
smile  at  some  joke.  He  had  said  a  word  to  the  hall  porter. 
As  he  v/ent  away  he  had  looked  at  the  fountain,  the  beggars 
lounging  beside  It,  a  yellow  motor  passing  driven  by  a  young 
red-haired  man  with  a  monocle. 

"  Well,  here  it  is!  "  something  like  that  he  had  said  to  him- 
self, as  he  crossed  the  road,  hearing  the  diminishing  hoot  of 
the  yellow  motor.  "  Here  it  is  shut  close  in  my  throat  what 
thousands  of  men  and  women  quail  at  the  very  thought  of! 
The  mystery  to  solve  which  multitudes  of  scientific  men  are 
giving  all  the  working  hours  of  their  lives!  The  horror  which 
has  cost  the  existences  ol  animals  innumerable  —  uselessly !  I 
carry  It  along  with  me  now  as  I  walk,  part  of  me,  just  up 
here,  close  to  the  air  and  the  sun  and  that  blue.  And  none  of 
these  people  know.  And  though  I  know,  here  I  am  walking 
as  strongly  as  usual,  feeling  no  sharp  pain,  just  a  bit  hoarse  and 
voiceless,  but  able  to  do  my  work,  to  be  about,  to  look  exactly 
as  usual.  There  goes  that  Russian  chap,  Karovsky!  gives  me 
his  usual  smiling  wag  of  the  head,  like  a  jolly  child.  If  he  had 
time  he'd  come  up  and  talk  to  me  about  Gorki,  and  never  know. 
Say  '  Je  vous  ai  dit  que  vous  fumez  trop  ' —  and  then  more 
Gorki.  Every  instant  I  pass  people.  Lots  of  them  look  at  me. 
But  not  one  knows.  Not  one  even  suspects  what  I  am,  what 
I  am  carrying  along  with  me." 

He  had  even  been  conscious  of  a  faint  sensation  of  irony  that 
was  not  unpleasant  to  him,  when  he  saw  a  dandified  Italian 
youth  stare  at  his  tie,  In  which  v/as  a  curious  old  paste  pin  given 
to  him  by  Edna. 

"  Does  he  think  he  can  see  It?"  he  had  thought. 

And  at  that  moment  he  had  felt  as  if  a  dreadful  smile  had 
slipped  over  his  face.  Surely  a  sort  of  still  madness  had  taken 
him  just  at  first.  It  was  like  lunacy  to  feel  so  calm,  to  be  able 
to  think  of  other  people's,  strangers',  feelings  In  such  a  moment, 
to  find  amusement  even  in  the  thought  of  their  ignorance  of 
the  thing  he  knew.     He  had  descended  the  hill  which  leads  to 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  149 

the  Palazzo  Barberini  quite  comfortably,  enjoying  the  warmth 
of  the  sun  on  his  back.  But  when  he  had  entered  the  palace, 
when  he  had  seen  Carlino  at  the  well-known  door,  when  he 
had  heard  Sir  Theodore's  "  Stop  to  lunch,  won't  you  ?  "  above 
all  when  he  had  written  the  note  to  his  wife,  "  It  "  had  begun 
to  stand  over  him.  So  it  seemed  to  him.  He  was  down  in  a 
pit  and  It  was  towering  above  him.  With  every  moment  now 
It  seemed  to  grow,  enveloping  everything  about  him.  Theo, 
his  old  and  tried  friend,  was  in  its  shadow  and  utterly  changed. 
Dolores  too  was  different.  He  heard  all  that  she  said,  knew 
exactly  what  it  meant,  was  able  to  answer,  and  break  in  huskily, 
was  conscious  of  her  animation,  and  peculiarly,  warmly  kind 
manner.  And  yet  she  seemed  at  moments  to  be  a  gabbling  and 
shrieking  monkey,  with  eyes  and  paws  intent  on  his  throat.  He 
began  to  wonder,  with  a  coldness  of  the  innermost  fear,  whether 
he  was  going  to  play  the  coward.  Never  had  he  thought  to  do 
that.  All  his  traditions  were  against  that.  Even  Edna  surely 
would  disown  him  If  he  "funked."  He  —  the  real  he  hidden 
somewhere  within  him,  like  a  red  spark  in  a  mass  of  black  peat  — 
would  disown  himself.  Nevertheless  he  felt  as  if  something 
was  beginning  to  shiver  within  him,  to  open  lips  in  order  to  let 
out  shrieks  of  protest,  to  search  violently  for  a  way  of  escape, 
to  clamor  for  safety,  careless  of  the  eyes  or  ears  of  any  one  liv- 
ing. He  wanted  to  strike  that  thing  down  at  once.  Its  de- 
struction was  a  necessity.  But  he  felt  its  strength,  its  power, 
its  recklessness  of  opinion,  Its  Independence  of  everything  except 
its  growing  terror  and  rebellion.  How  was  he  going  to  domi- 
nate it?  It  was  as  if  he  held  a  dreadful  live  secret  in  the  cage 
of  his  hands,  and  felt  it  struggling  to  get  away,  to  burst  its 
prison,  to  show  itself  to  every  one. 

If  it  did  that! 

He  began  to  be  afraid  of  his  own  fear. 

"  One  woman  to  another!  " 

He  stared  at  Dolores.  Why  was  she  being  so  almost  ten- 
derly kind  to  him  to-day?  But,  no,  he  must  tell  Ed  himself, 
when  the  moment  came. 

Sir  Theodore  scarcely  said  a  word.  His  understanding  of 
the  meaning  of  what  Denzil  had  just  told  him  was  with  every 
moment  becoming  more  terribly  complete.  In  the  library  he 
had  known  little  of  it.  But  now  —  his  beautiful  room  had  be- 
come frightful  to  him.  Every  object  his  eyes  rested  upon 
looked  stark,  as  if  it  had  been  stripped  of  that  which  had  for- 
merly made  it  attractive,  or  beautiful,  and  now  appeared  in  a 


I50  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

native  dreadfulness,  like  a  skeleton  deprived  of  the  flesh  that 
once  made  it  a  body ;  every  object,  except  Dolores. 

Couldn't  she  help? 

Almost  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  perhaps  for  the  first 
time,  he  thought  of  her  for  a  moment  as  shelter. 

When  they  got  up  from  lunch  he  said  to  her: 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do,  Doloretta?  " 

"  Rest  a  little.  And  then  I  meant  to  practise  those  things 
of  Ravel's.     Do  you  want  me  ?  " 

She  laid  a  sort  of  gentle  stress  on  the  last  words,  and  her 
gazelle-like  eyes  became  full  of  a  melting  wistfulness. 

"  Francis  and  I  have  got  to  have  a  talk.  And  then  —  well, 
I  shall  know  where  to  find  you." 

"  And  Francis  too,"  she  said. 

Again  Denzil  stared  at  her,  Vv-ondering. 

When  the  two  men  were  in  the  library  again  Sir  Theodore 
grasped  his  friend's  hand  quickly. 

"  Francis!  "  he  said,  "  I'm  beginning  to " 

He  dropped  Denzil's  hand. 

"  Why  do  such  things  come  upon  us?  "  he  exclaimed. 

His  voice  was  harsh  and  bitter. 

"  Never  on  you,  Theo — let's  hope." 

Sir  Theodore  looked  at  his  friend.  He  wanted  to  be  able 
to  say,  with  truth,  "Rather  on  me  than  you!"  thinking  of 
Denzil's  life  and  his ;  ambition  still  to  be  gratified,  perfect  home 
happiness,  children,  the  mother  who  was  the  wife  —  the  ended 
career,  the  childless  hearth.  But  his  soul  was  saying,  "  Rather 
you  than  me."  And,  even  in  that  moment,  he  was  unable  to 
imagine  such  a  catastrophe  occurring  to  himself. 

"  Francis  —  sit  down." 

A  manservant  brought  in  coffee.  When  he  had  gone  Denzii 
said: 

"  You  must  come  very  close  to  me." 

Sir  Theodore  came. 

"  I  must  try  to  arrange  things,  not  to  forget  anything  that 
concerns  —  them." 

"  Ides  can  do  anything.  He's  marvelous.  He  can  do  what 
no  other  surgeon  can  do.     He'll  save  you." 

"  Perhaps,  at  any  rate,  for  a  time.  I  trust  him  thoroughly. 
But  let  me  speak  about  arrangements." 

Sir  Theodore  marveled  at  the  apparent  serenity  of  his  friend. 
It  seemed  to  him  incredible.  Yet  there  it  was.  He  did  not 
thoroughly  realize  that  Denzil,  with  a  sort  of  almost  dull  fixity 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  151 

of  purpose,  was  trying  to  fasten  his  mind  upon  things,  to  grip 
subjects  with  his  thoughts,  to  dodge  his  demon. 

"  Give  me  time!  I'll  assert  myself  if  only  I  can  gain  a  little 
time!" 

It  was  a  sort  of  dumb  prayer  thrust  up  to  whatever  had  set 
It  in  his  throat. 

"  I'll  be  true  to  myself  and  tradition  —  only  help  me  through 
this  bit  of  time,  just  this  bit  I'm  in  now.  I'm  hard  pressed 
just  now.  Give  me  a  hand  over  this  rough  piece  of  ground, 
and  I  won't  fall.     I'll  stand  and  face  it." 

"  I've  made  my  will,  of  course.  There's  not  very  much  to 
leave " 

And  so  on,  almost  in  a  whisper.  And  as  the  whispering  con- 
tinued Sir  Theodore  began  at  last  fully  to  grasp  the  whole 
meaning  of  the  matter.  Francis  was  —  perhaps,  he  clung  on 
to  that  perhaps  —  going  to  disappear.  Edna  might  soon  be  a 
widow,  the  little  ones,  the  brats,  fatherless,  and  he  without  his 
friend.  He  looked  at  Francis.  The  truth  seemed  incredible. 
There  was  no  change  in  Francis's  appearance.  He  did  not 
look  ill.  Only  the  whispering  sounds  betrayed  his  condition. 
A  wave  of  intense  sympathy  went  through  Sir  Theodore,  a 
fierce  desire  to  be  potent. 

"  Will  you,  Theo  ?  Will  you  look  after  them  —  if  it  comes 
to  that?" 

*'  Can't  you  see  that  I  will  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  know  my  ideas  about  how  a  boy  should  be 

brought  up.     The  little  girls "  he  stopped.     "Ed  knows 

better  than  we  do  all  they  need.  But  Theo  will  want  a  man 
to  see  to  him.  May  I  constitute  you  his  guardian  in  case  of 
the  worst?" 

"  Francis,  I "  he  looked  at  the  tall  windows  for  a  mo- 
ment. **  Francis,  put  everything,  everything  j^ou  care  to  into 
my  hands.  My  life  is  pretty  empty  now.  If  —  well,  it  may 
be  much  emptier  presently,  though  God  grant  not.  Fill  it  up 
for  me  as  much  as  you  can  with  duties  that  will  be  of  some  use 
and  benefit  to  them.     I  love  them.     That's  all  I  need  to  say." 

"  That  says  everything.     That's  what  I  wanted." 

Presently  Denzil  whispered: 

"  That  seems  all,  as  regards  their  future." 

There  was  a  long  silence  between  the  two  friends.  At  last 
Sir  Theodore  broke  it  by  saying: 

"  You  can't  keep  it  to  yourself  till  Thursday  is  over,  you 
can't." 


152  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  am  going  to.     Ides  knows  that,  and  agrees." 

"  You  can't  do  it." 

"  Doing  it  will  help  me  tremendously.  It's  something  to 
grip  on  to,  live  for." 

"But  Edna  —  she  must  find  out.  She  is  so  one  with  you, 
Francis.  And  women  have  an  almost  mystical  knowledge  of 
things  sometimes." 

His  mind  was  fixed  entirely  on  Edna  Denzil  as  he  said  that. 

"  And  the  shock  to  her.  She  will  have  no  time  to  prepare. 
She  will  lose  these  days." 

"  Lose!     Gain  them,  if  I  hold  out.     Two  more  happy  days." 

"  But  to  have  to  face  Friday  instantly!  " 

"  I  believe  it's  better.  I  know  she'll  forgive  me  for  doing 
it.  Tell  her  —  and  all  the  brats  are  looking  forward  to  for 
Thursday  must  go.  I  couldn't  ask  a  woman  to  help  through 
with  it,  knowing.  Even  Ed  couldn't  come  up  to  the  scratch. 
No." 

*'  I  must  go  and  see  Ides." 

"  I  wish  you  would." 

Sir  Theodore  cleared  his  throat  raspingly  twice,  then  sud- 
denly cursed  himself  for  having  done  it.  An  acute  pang  of 
neuralgia  seemed  to  impale  his  brain. 

"  Where  —  where  is  the  operation  going  to  take  place?  "  he 
got  out. 

"  I  don't  know  yet.  There  has  been  no  time  to  think.  I 
daresay  Ides " 

"  It  must  take  place  here,"  Sir  Theodore  said,  with  sharp 
decisiveness. 

"  No,  Theo." 

"  It  must." 

"  I  couldn't  —  Dolores !     Think  of  her  1 " 

At  that  moment  the  distant  sound  of  a  piano  was  audible. 
Sir  Theodore  turned  his  head  and  listened  for  a  moment.  Dolo- 
res was  practising  an  elusive  and  ultra-modern  etude,  compli- 
cated, difficult,  and  full  of  elaborate  delicacies.  Heard  in  such 
a  moment,  and  in  the  presence  of  his  friend,  it  produced  upon 
Sir  Theodore  an  effect  that  surprised  himself. 

"Dolores!"  he  said,  and  his  big  voice  was  resonant  with 
feeling.  "  It  will  do  her  good  to  look  things  in  the  face  I  Vou 
have  to  go  through  —  that !  And  can't  she  endure  that  it 
should  happen  in  her  apartment?  Is  she  to  be  afraid  of  the 
interruption  in  our  two  useless  cotton-wool  lives?  What?  Is 
it  such  a  tragedy  to  keep  the  piano  silent  for  a  few  daj^s,  to  go 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  153 

quietly,  not  to  receive  interesting  people  and  gossip  over  the 
tea-cups?  I  do  think  of  Doloretta,  and  I  say  that  she  and  I 
will  help  you  through,  Francis,  and  help  Edna  through  —  she 
and  I!" 

In  the  silence  the  sound  of  the  piano  was  again  audible  in  the 
room.     Denzii  leaned  forward. 

"  Theo,  don't  wrong  Dolores!"  he  whispered. 

"No,  no!  Perhaps • — ■ — "  Sir  Theodore  got  up.  "Such  a 
thing  as  this  casts  a  man  loose  from  his  moorings." 

Denzii  got  up  too. 

"You're  not  going,  Francis?" 

"  Yes." 

"Where  to?" 

"  Home." 

Sir  Theodore  gazed  at  him. 

"You're  ready  to  face  Edna?" 

"  I  think  so.     I  must  begin  on  something.     I  can't " 

"  I  know.  I  know.  But  —  if  Ides  consents  to  the  opera- 
tion taking  place  here  I  must  have  5'our  permission  to  tell  Dolo- 
retta." 

"Before  Ed  knows!  That  is  another  reason  against  its 
taking  place  here." 

"  It  can't  be  done  in  your  flat,  because  of  the  children." 

"  I  think  the  Anglo-American  hospital " 

"  Francis,  if  Ides  consents,  let  us  give  you  a  home  to  go 
through  it  in.  It's  bad  enough.  With  us  —  here  —  at  least 
you'll  feel,  and  Edna  will  feel,  you're  with  those  who  care.  I 
have  a  horror  of  nursing-homes.  And  we  have  so  much  use- 
less space," 

He  stopped. 

"  Ides  shall  decide,"  he  added. 

"Yes,  Ides  will  know  best.  But  —  anyhow — thank  you, 
old  fellow.     I  shan't  forget  all  that " 

He  broke  off.  Like  a  stab  there  seemed  driven  into  him  the 
thought: 

"  How  much  longer  shall  I  be  able  to  remember  anything?  " 

"  Shall  we  see  Doloretta  for  a  moment?  or  would  you  rather 
not?" 

Denzii  hesitated. 

"  I  should  like  to  say  good-bye  to  her." 

"  And  then  shall  I  walk  back  with  you  ?  " 

"  I  think  I  must  go  alone.     I  —  I  want  to  get  ready." 

"  I  know,     I  know." 


154  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

A  crushing  sense  of  human  impotence  came  down  on  Sir 
Theodore. 

"  If  I  could  help !  "  he  thought. 

For  an  instant  he  felt  like  a  man  suddenly  deprived  of  his 
arms,  and  beset  by  the  instinctive  desire  to  stretch  them  out  to 
one  in  sore  need  of  affection.     And  again  he  said  to  himself: 

"Couldn't  Doloretta  help?" 

"  Come,  Francis!  "  he  said. 

Gently  he  took  Denzil  by  the  arm  and  led  him  out  of  the 
room.  How  strange,  how  almost  terrible,  because  unnatural, 
it  seemed  that  Denzil  walked  with  his  usual  firmness  of  a 
strong  and  athletic  man! 


CHAPTER  XII 

Denzil  only  stayed  two  or  three  minutes  wath  Dolores,  who 
stopped  her  practising,  and  sat  on  the  music  seat  with  one  hand 
resting  on  the  keys  while  she  talked  to  him.  Just  as  he  was 
going  away  she  said: 

"  I  had  a  note  from  Edna.  Do  you  really  wish  me  to  come 
to  the  first  ceremony  on  Thursday?  Of  course,  Theo's  a  god- 
father. That  is  different.  I'm  going  to  look  in  on  the  chil- 
dren in  the  evening.  But  Edna  has  invited  me  to  the  present- 
giving  too." 

"  Oh,  do  come  and  present  the  whip,"  said  Denzil  in  a 
whisper. 

Those  were  his  last  words  to  Dolores.  Sir  Theodore  went 
to  let  his  friend  out.  When  he  came  back  Dolores  was  still 
at  the  piano,  but  she  was  not  playing.  Directly  her  husband 
was  in  the  room  she  said: 

"  Theo,  what  is  the  matter  with  Francis?  " 

"The  matter!  "  said  Sir  Theodore,  startled. 

"  Yes.  I  don't  mean  his  cold.  But  perhaps  I  am  indiscreet 
to  ask.     Never  mind." 

She  arranged  the  music  on  the  piano  stand,  turning  back 
some  leaves. 

"  This  Ravel  is  fearfully  difficult.  Most  of  these  modern 
composers  are.  And  even  when  one  has  mastered  their  works, 
I  don't  knovv'  —  the  result  often  seems  unsatisfactory." 

"  lis  allumaient  bien  leur  petite  lanterne,"  quoted  Sir  Theo- 
dore,   trying    to   seem    interested    and    to   smile.     "  Seulement 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  155 

c'etait  comme  celle  des  vers  luisants.  *  Elle  ne  rechauffait  rien 
et  eclairait  a  peine.'     Rolland  is  not  far  from  the  mark." 

"  No,  perhaps  not." 

He  stood  by  the  piano,  looking  down  on  her  from  his  great 
height.  He  was  dreading  the  moment  when  she  v/ould  begin 
to  play  again.  Music,  any  music,  at  that  moment  would  be 
like  an  outrage  in  the  room  Denzil  had  just  left.  Dolores 
could  not  know  that,  yet  she  evidently  hesitated  to  begin  play- 
ing. As  her  husband  said  nothing  more,  however,  she  lifted  her 
hands,  and  was  just  going  to  strike  the  keys  when  he  bent  sud- 
denly and  took  them  in  his. 

"  Don't  play  any  more  to-day,  Doloretta!  " 

"  Of  course  not  if  5^ou  don't  wish  it." 

"  Just  for  to-day." 

"There's  nothing  wrong  with  the  children?" 

"  No." 

Something  in  her  eyes,  and  perhaps  something  in  his  heart, 
made  him  long  to  be  sincere  with  Dolores  at  this  moment. 

"  But  there  is  something,"  he  said.  "  I  want  to  tell  you 
what  it  is.     But  it  is  not  my  secret." 

"  I  see.  I'm  afraid  it's  very  sad.  But  I  don't  wish  to  know 
it." 

He  let  go  of  her  hands,  and  she  gently  shut  up  the  piano,  and 
put  away  the  music.  This  done,  she  hesitated.  She  did  not 
know  what  she  was  going  to  do  since  she  was  not  going  to 
practise. 

"  Have  you  anything  to  do  this  afternoon,  Theo?  "  she  asked. 

"  Yes.     I'm  going  to  see  Doctor  Ides." 

"  Lady  Sarah's  brother-in-law  1  " 

"  I  knew  him  ages  ago  when  he  was  practising  here  and  I 
was  a  Secretary  of  Embass3%  He's  an  interesting  fellow.  We 
must  get  him  here  while  he's  in  Rome." 

He  saw  by  her  eyes  that  she  had  immediately  connected  Doc- 
tor Ides  with  the  thing  he  had  not  told  her,  and  he  felt  as  if  it 
was  his  strong  desire  to  tell  it  to  her  which  made  her  so  almost 
uncannily  intelligent  at  that  moment. 

"  Yes.  I  should  like  to  know  him.  Well,  I  will  write  some 
letters." 

She  went  slowly  to  the  writing-table,  sat  down,  took  a  pen, 
and  began  to  write.  Sir  Theodore  looked  for  a  moment  at  the 
delicate  line  of  her  long  neck,  with  the  soft  dark  hair  against 
its  whiteness,  and  at  her  beautiful  little  head  bent  over  the  writ- 
ing-table.    She  at  least  was  not  suffering,  was  not   doomed. 


156  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

What  it  must  be  to  stand  by  and  watch  a  gentle  woman  suffer 
horribly! 

And  then  suddenly  Edna  Denzil  rose  up  before  him.  And 
her  face  was  happy.  Never  had  he  seen  her  look  unhappy. 
What  was  before  them  all?  Like  Denzil  he  felt  that  he  must 
get  a  grip  on  the  things  of  the  day,  concentrate  himself  on  the 
moment.     Ides!     He  must  go  and  see  Ides. 

He  went  out  of  the  room  without  speaking  again  to  Dolores, 
and  the  last  sound  that  he  heard  before  he  shut  the  door  was 
the  slow  scratching  of  her  pen  on  the  notepaper  she  was  cov- 
ering. 

Doctor  Ides  was  in  the  hotel.  Through  the  glass  door  Sir 
Theodore  saw  him,  sitting  alone  reading  the  Times  in  a  quiet 
corner  of  the  big  hall  in  which  Schizzi  had  played.  He  was 
wearing  gold-rimraed  ej'eglasses,  and  his  fresh-colored,  clean- 
shaven face  looked  very  serious  and  rather  impassive  as  he  read. 
But  Sir  Theodore's  eyes  fixed  themselves  on  his  hands.  They 
were  both  holding  the  paper,  large,  well-shaped,  powerful,  and 
yet  delicate-looking  hands,  pink  in  color,  with  oval  finger-tips. 
Would  they  be  able  to  save  Francis? 

Doctor  Ides  looked  up  suddenly  over  his  eyeglasses,  wrinkling 
his  high  forehead  and  slightly  turning  his  head  without  moving 
his  body.     He  laid  down  the  Times  when  he  saw  Sir  Theodore. 

"  Denzil's  been  with  me,  Doctor  Ides." 

Sir  Theodore  felt  the  touch  of  the  doctor's  hand,  dry,  cool, 
surely  restorative.  The  doctor  drew  up  an  armchair  deliber- 
ately for  his  visitor. 

"  I  knew  he  was  going  to  tell  you,"  he  said,  in  his  quiet,  al- 
most lazy  voice. 

He  took  off  his  eyeglasses  and  laid  them  down  on  the  Times. 

"  It's  a  bad  business?  " 

"  Very  bad.  I  was  afraid,  when  I  met  him  last  night  after 
dinner." 

"  But  surely  hoarseness " 

"  It  wasn't  that  only." 

"  And  to  me  he  looks  so  well  and  strong.  It  seems  almost 
incredible." 

"  Yes,  yes.     I  shall  do  all  that  can  be  done." 

"Have  you  —  is  there  a  good  hope  of  saving  him?  He's 
got  a  wife,  little  children.  He's  just  been  appointed  to  Mu- 
nich." 

"  I  doubt  very  much  whether  he'll  be  able  to  take  up  that 
appointment." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  157 


"But 


"  I  hope  to  save  his  life." 

"  Isn't  there  a  great  danger  of  pneumonia  after  such  an 
operation  ?  " 

"  Not  to  my  patients." 

"  But  shock  to  the  system?  " 

*'  Any  shock  to  the  system  will  not  depend  on  the  opening 
of  the  larynx,  but  on  the  manipulations  required  in  it." 

"  And  —  excision  ?  " 

"  It  may  be  necessary.  I'm  speaking  to  you  with  absolute 
frankness,  as  I  did  to  him.  In  my  long  experience  I  have 
found  that  with  most  patients  perfect  sincerity  is  the  wisest 
policy,  even  speaking  medically.  It  creates  that  splendid  bond 
between  doctor  and  patient,  trust.  There  may  be  cases  where 
one  must  hold  back  the  truth.  Mr.  Denzil's  is  not  one  of 
them." 

"  You  are  right.     But  about  his  poor  wife?  " 

"  We  talked  that  over.  I  offered  to  go  home  with  him  to 
her  and  to  help  through  with  the  telling.  But  he  is  set  upon 
having  certain  birthday  festivities  first." 

"  Is  it  right?     Is  it  fair  to  her?  " 

Doctor  Ides  lifted  his  eyeglasses,  held  them  between  tv/o  of 
his  fingers  for  a  moment,  laid  them  down  again. 

"  She  gains  —  perhaps  —  a  couple  of  days  of  happiness." 

"Perhaps?" 

"  Many  women  are  not  easy  to  deceive,  some  cannot  be  de- 
ceived." 

"  But  is  it  right  even  to  try?  " 

"  My  position  was  this.  I  was  obliged  to  pronounce  a  ter- 
rible verdict.  He  took  it,  as  so  many  do,  with  what  seemed 
almost  inhuman  calmness.  But  he  claimed  two  days.  In  his 
condition,  from  my  point  of  view,  there  is  little  reason  why  he 
should  not  have  them.  I  explained  matters  medically.  He 
stuck  to  those  two  days.  I  did  not  consider  it  within  my  prov- 
ince to  enter  into  his  domestic  relations.  I  said  so.  And  there 
it  ended." 

"  It  would  have  to  end  there,  of  course.  But  I  know  his 
wife  so  well." 

Sir  Theodore  studied  the  carpet  for  a  minute  or  two.  Then, 
leaving  that  subject,  he  broached  his  plan  that  the  operation 
should  take  place  in  the  Palazzo  Barberini. 

"  If  —  which  God  forbid  —  he  has  to  cl:e,  let  it  be  in  the 
home  of  those  who  care  for  him  at  least,"  he  said.     *'  I  know 


158  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

all  the  advantages  of  hospitals  and  nursing-homes.  Everything 
ready,  everything  foreseen  and  arranged  for.  There  is  the 
Anglo-American  hospital  here.  I've  been  over  it.  It's  splen- 
didly managed.  But  —  well,  Doctor  Ides,  this  is  a  matter  of 
sentiment  with  me.  I'm  not  ashamed  to  confess  it.  Denzil  is 
my  best  friend.  Let  him  bring  his  trouble  to  me.  I  will  do 
the  best  for  him  I  can.  I  know,  of  course,  the  question  of  ex- 
pense arises.  If  he  lives  he  and  I  will  arrange  it  between  us. 
If  he  dies  —  please  rem.ember  it's  solely  my  affair.  I'm  better 
off  at  present  than  he  is.  Nurses,  everything  that  can  be 
wanted.  You  shall  come  and  do  what  you  like  in  my  apart- 
ment, tear  anything  down,  turn  anything  out,  strip  walls,  floors; 
nothing  matters  but  Francis." 

"  Did  you  mention  this  idea  to  him?" 

"  Yes.  Of  course  he  began  about  a  nursing-home.   But '* 

Sir  Theodore  laid  a  twitching  brown  hand  on  Doctor  Ides* 
sleeve — "  I  know  him,  and  in  his  heart  he  was  longing  that  it 
should  be  in  my  home.  His  wife  too  —  how  she  will  wish  it, 
when  she  knows !  " 

"  I  should  prefer  the  nursing-homie." 

"  Do  you  absolutely  veto  the  other  idea?  " 

After  a  pause,  during  which  Doctor  Ides  sat  with  his  blue 
eyes  fixed  on  Sir  Theodore,  he  said: 

"  No."^ 

Impulsively  Sir  Theodore  got  up. 

"  Come  and  see  my  apartment  and  give  any  directions  you 
like.     You  are  master  in  it." 

The  doctor  took  up  his  eyeglasses,  and  followed  Sir  Theo- 
dore's example.  When  he  had  found  his  soft  gray  hat,  and 
they  were  going  out  through  the  revolving  door,  he  said: 

"Palazzo  Barberini,  is  it?" 

"Yes."^ 

"  If  it  is  to  be  there,  keep  it  absolutely  quiet  beforehand. 
You  know  how  fussy  people  are  about  everything  that  happens 
in  a  buildinsf  they  inhabit,  however  immense  it  is." 

"  Of  course." 

Abruptly  the  thought  of  Dolores  came  to  him.  All  this  time 
he  had  not  remembered  her. 

"  My  wife !  "  he  said.  "  She  is  at  home  this  afternoon.  She 
will  have  to  know." 

"  But  haven't  you  talked  over  your  suggestion  with  her?  " 

"  No.  She  knows  nothing.  Denzil  lunched  with  us  to-day. 
But  he  did  not  tell  her." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  159 

■"  Well,  if  the  operation  is  arranged  to  take  place  in  your 
apartment,  she  must  be  told.     Perhaps  she  will  not  wish  it." 

The  doctor  sent  a  glance  at  his  companion. 

"  She  will  be  ready  to  do  anything  that  can  help  Denzil 
through.  She  is  very  fond  of  him.  And  already  she  suspects 
something.  She  asked  me  after  lunch  what  was  the  matter 
with  him  to-day." 

"  I  daresay  we  shall  have  Mrs.  Denzil  doing  that  too,"  ob- 
served Doctor  Ides  quietly. 

"  I  don't  know.  I  think  Francis  —  Denzil  I  mean  —  meant 
to  get  himself  absolutely  in  hand.     And  he's  a  strong  man," 

"  I  respect  him  for  the  way  he  took  it.  But  we  specialists 
learn  to  respect  a  great  many  of  our  patients." 

The  doctor  sighed. 

"  That  is  a  compensation  for  certain  disillusions,"  he  added, 
as  if  to  cover  the  sigh. 

"  I  often  wonder  how  a  great  surgeon  can  endure  his  life," 
said  Sir  Theodore.  *'  Working,  as  he  must,  perpetually  in  the 
midst  of  desperate  human  anxiety." 

"  He  learns  to  dismiss  his  cases  from  his  mind  directly  his 
patients  are  beyond  his  sight,  to  shut  them  out  sharply  till  the 
time  comes  to  work  for  them." 

"Can  you  do  that?" 

"  As  a  rule,  yes.  Years  ago  I  found  that  unless  I  could 
manage  to  do  it  I  should  simply  have  to  give  up  practising  as 
a  throat  specialist." 

"  Do  you  mean  that  this  afternoon,  for  instance,  you  could 
go,  say,  for  an  expedition  in  the  Campagna  and  enjoy  it?" 

*'  I  daresay  I  could.  One  thing  my  profession  teaches.  It 
teaches  a  man  to  face  life,  and  death,  not  only  for  himself  but 
for  others,  with  cool  nerve,  with  steady  eyes." 

He  lifted  up  one  hand. 

*'  This  hand  must  never  tremble,  Sir  Theodore.  I  have  to 
bear  that  in  mind.  But  the  fact  that  a  surgeon  must  possess 
complete  self-control  does  not  exclude  the  possibility  of  his  pos- 
sessing a  certain  amount — "  the  doctor  put  a  faintly  ironic 
stress  on  the  last  two  words — "of  human  sympathy.  I  know 
personally  what  throat  trouble  Is.  I  was  once  thought  to  be 
dying  of  a  disease  of  the  throat  mvself." 

"You!" 

"  Yes,  throat  consumption.  For  nearly  a  year  I  was  away 
on  the  Cotswold  Hills  and  never  once  spoke." 

"  Do  you  really  mean  that  you  did  not  utter  one  word?  " 


i6o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Not  one,"  returned  the  doctor  in  his  lazy  voice. 

At  this  moment  they  reached  the  entrance  to  the  garden  in 
front  of  the  Palazzo  Barberini. 

"  What's  to  be  done  about  my  wife?"  said  Sir  Theodore  as 
they  turned  in. 

"  Perhaps  she  will  have  gone  out." 

"If  she  hasn't?  The  truth  is  that  Denzil  evidently  thinks 
Mrs.  Denzil  should  not  be  kept  in  ignorance  and  my  wife 
know." 

"  Lady  Cannynge  certainly  will  have  to  know  if  the  opera- 
tion is  to  take  place  in  her  apartment." 

"  Perhaps  I  needn't  tell  her  till  I  have  seen  Denzil  again, 
and  explained.  Then  he  can  decide  whether  it  would  not  be 
best  to  tell  his  wife  at  once." 

They  were  at  the  foot  of  the  big  stone  staircase. 

"  He  will  not  tell  Mrs.  Denzil  till  after  Thursday's  festiv- 
ity," said  Doctor  Ides.     "  You  can  take  my  word  for  that." 

"And  can  he  come  in  on  the  very  day  of  the  operation?  " 

"  It  is  not  desirable,  and  I  told  him  so.  But  in  the  special 
circumstances,  and  as  it  only  means  a  few  minutes  by  motor,  I 
will  permit  it  at  his  urgent  desire." 

As  the  doctor  said  the  last  words  there  was  the  sound  of  de- 
scending light  feet  on  the  stone,  and  Edna  Denzil  came  round 
the  angle  of  the  staircase  upon  the  two  men.  When  she  saw 
them  she  stopped. 

"Oh,  Theodore!" 

She  held  out  her  hand  to  Doctor  Ides,  with  the  charming, 
slight  smile  which  came  so  naturally  to  her  rather  pale  lips, 
turning  them  up  a  little  at  the  corners. 

"  I've  been  up  to  see  Dolores  for  a  moment.  I  thought  it 
just  possible  I  might  find  Franzi  here  too.  But  he's  gone. 
That  doesn't  matter.  What  I  wanted  was  to  make  sure  Dolo- 
res would  come  to  the  present-giving  as  well  as  to  the  children's 
festa  on  Thursday." 

She  put  her  face  near  to  Doctor  Ides'. 

"  It's  only  my  little  son's  birthday.  But  we're  in  quite  a 
turmoil  over  it,  a  happy  turmoil  bien  entendu.  I  rather  en- 
courage a  fuss  on  such  occasions.  Don't  you  think  I'm  right? 
Children  do  so  revel  in  a  fuss.  But  it  must  be  only  now  and 
then." 

"  It  does  them  good,"  said  Doctor  Ides.  "  A  happy  fuss 
acts  as  a  tonic." 

"  Doesn't  it?     If  you  can  stand  seeing  the  effect  of  the  tonic, 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  i6i 

we  shall  be  very  happy  to  welcome  you  on  Thursday  evening. 
Lady  Sarah  is  coming.  But  don't  reply.  Just  see  whether  you 
feel  inclined,  or  not,  when  Thursday  arrives.  Oh,  Theodore!  " 
—  she  turned  to  him  quickly — "what's  the  exact  thing  in  rid- 
ing gaiters  for  a  boy?  I  can't  find  out  from  Franzi  because  I 
missed  him  coming  here.  And  I'm  on  my  way  to  the  Corso 
now.     Do  forgive  me,  Doctor  Ides!  " 

She  descended  a  step  or  two  with  Sir  Theodore,  and  held  a 
brief  colloquy  with  him. 

"Brown,  of  course!  Yes  —  flexible.  I  know  the  exact 
thing  now.     Thank  j'ou,  Theodore." 

She  looked  back  at  Doctor  Ides  from  below.  He  noticed 
the  cast  in  her  eye  and  thought,  as  nearly  all  men  did,  how  at- 
tractive it  was. 

"  When  my  old  Franzi  fails  me  I  always  come  to  Sir  Theo- 
dore. He  has  an  instinct  about  children.  Forgive  me,  please,, 
for  stopping  you  and  interrupting  your  serious  talk  with  my 
little  son's  gaiters.  But  he  does  think  them  of  such  supreme 
importance." 

"  I'm  going  to  tell  my  wife,  Doctor,"  Sir  Theodore  said,  al- 
most sternly,  when  Mrs.  Denzil  had  gone.  "  It  can't  be 
helped  whether  Denzil  wishes  it  or  not.  Mrs.  Denzil  will  for- 
give it  because  of  the  reason  —  our  getting  things  ready  to  — 

for  Friday  here.     And  besides "     His  face  was  drawn  and 

working. 

"  Besides  my  wife  already  knows  something  is  wrong,  and 
she  will  see  —  the  truth  is  best." 

"  Yes,  I  believe  so."^ 

Sir  Theodore  put  his  key  into  the  door.  He  was  angry  with 
himself  for  what  he  considered  his  lack  of  self-control.  It 
seemed  that  he  had  not  learnt,  like  Doctor  Ides,  to  face  death 
for  others.  His  warm  affection  for  Edna  Denzil  and  the  chil- 
dren tortured  him.  He  felt  like  a  coward  —  for  them,  and  he 
felt  guilty  of  insincerity  towards  one  transparently  sincere. 
This  last  feeling  had  really  decided  him  to  be  frank  with  Dolo- 
res at  once.     He  needed,  almost  physically,  that  outburst. 

"  You  shall  see  the  bedrooms  and  decide  what  is  best,"  he 
said,  as  he  let  the  doctor  in.  "  Remember  you  have  only 
to  sav.  Nothing  will  be  inconvenient,  nothing  will  be  Impos- 
sible." 

They  passed  through  the  sitting-rooms  without  finding  Dolo- 
res, and  presently  stood  before  the  door  of  her  and  Sir  Theo- 
dore's bedroom,  in  front  of  the  picture  attributed  to  Luini. 


i62  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  My  wife  is  probably  here.  I'll  just  see,"  said  Sir  Theo- 
dore. 

Doctor  Ides  put  on  his  eyeglasses  and  examined  the  picture 
carefully. 

"  Dolores!" 

Sir  Theodore  tapped. 

"  Are  you  here?" 

"  Yes,  come  in,  Theo!  "  answered  a  voice  from  within. 

"  One  minute,  Doctor!  " 

Sir  Theodore  went  into  the  room  and  shut  the  door. 

Dolores  was  standing  before  a  long  mirror  let  into  the  door 
which  divided  the  bedroom  from  Sir  Theodore's  dressing-room, 
trying  on  hats.  With  her  was  a  short,  stout  and  almost  un- 
naturally swarthy  woman,  with  a  heavy  nose,  and  large,  but 
sunken  eyes,  who  was  standing  up,  gesticulating,  and  talking  in 
the  loud  and  ugly  voice  so  often  to  be  heard  among  the  lower 
classes  in  Italy.  Upon  the  floor  was  a  number  of  large  card- 
board boxes,  some  open  and  some  not.  Three  hats  were  ranged 
on  chairs.  One  lay  on  the  damask  covering  of  one  of  the  beds. 
Dolores  had  just  put  on  a  fifth,  pale  yellow  in  color  with  yellow 
plumes,  on  her  dark  little  head,  and  still  had  her  hands  raised 
holding  it  when  her  husband  came  in.  Not  turning  she  looked 
at  him  In  the  mirror  and  said : 

"  You  can  help  me,  Theo,  if  you  have  a  moment.  Do  you 
think  yellow  becoming  to ?  " 

Her  voice  died  away.  She  turned  round  to  look  into  the 
living  face  at  whose  reflection  she  had  been  gazing. 

"Ma,  caro  signore,  I  keep  telling  the  signora  that  in  all 
Rome  —  and  may  the  Madonna  send  me  sorrow  if  I  say  the 
thing  that  is  untrue  —  in  all  Rome  there  is  not  a  princi- 
pessa " 

The  strident  voice  broke  of^,  then  feebly  added,  with  a  note 
as  of  protest,  "  ma,  caro  signore!  "  and  broke  off  again. 

"  Dolores,  get  rid  of  all  this.     I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

There  was  an  almost  fiercely  ironical  sound  in  his  voice,  which 
Dolores  had  never  before  heard  in  it.  She  lifted  the  yellow  hat 
from  her  head  and  handed  it  to  the  fat  woman,  whose  features 
looked  heavy  with  sulky  indignation. 

"  Another  day!  "  she  said,  with  a  gesture  towards  one  of  the 
boxes. 

"  I  am  to  com.e  again,  signora?  " 

The  voice  grated  in  the  room. 

"Yes."     Dolores  glanced  at  her  husband.     "Sh!" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  163 

The  woman  began  to  collect  the  hats,  casting  side  glances  of 
sluttish  condemnation  at  the  tall  man  who  had  dared  thus  to 
break  into  woman's  province,  and  scatter  pleasures  and  gains 
to  the  winds  with  a  look  and  a  sentence  she  had  not  understood. 
Sir  Theodore  stood  waiting  in  silence  till  at  length  she  had 
finished,  and  was  stringing  her  boxes  together  preparatory  to 
departure. 

"  When  shall  I " 

"  I'll  let  you  know." 

"  Buon  gio7-no /  ■" 

She  did  not  get  out  a  "  signora." 

"  Buon  giorno"  said  Dolores. 

The  fat  woman  got  away  immersed  in  cardboard  and 
waddling  sideways,  with  the  tail  of  her  black  gown  leaping 
behind  her,  and  her  large  hips  swinging  fiercely,  with  a  sort  of 
surging  motion.  When  at  last  she  was  gone,  Dolores  looked 
at  her  husband.  And  her  big  eyes  were  a  question.  But  though' 
they  were  alone  he  did  not  reply  to  it.  His  pointed  beard 
shifted  as  he  moved  his  lips,  which  were  pressed  tightly  to- 
gether. He  looked  at  and  away  from  his  wife,  two  or  three 
times,  and  it  seemed  to  Dolores  that  in  his  glance  there  was  a 
sort  of  deadly  appraisement,  such  as  might  be  in  the  glance  of 
a  cruel,  or  hostile,  stranger. 

At  last  he  opened  his  lips. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  interrupt  you,"  he  began. 

"What  does  it  matter?  It  was  only  hats,"  she  said  rather 
wearily,  and  in  a  little  voice  almost  like  a  child's. 

*'  But  I'd  already  interrupted  your  practising.    You  will  think 

I  have  nothing  to  do  but  to  play  the  curmudgeon.     But " 

he  hesitated.     "  But  the  fact  is.  Doctor  Ides  is  here,  and " 

"Doctor  Ides!"  she  said,  no  longer  in  a  child's  voice. 
"Theolareyouill?" 

She  was  beside  him  almost  before  he  knew  she  was  going  to 
move. 

"  No,  perfectly  well.  But  I  want  you  to  come  and  see  Doc- 
tor Ides." 

She  gazed  at  him. 

"Who  is  ill?  \\niat  is  it?  What  is  the  matter?  Do  you 
think  —  surely  you  don't  imagine  there  is  anything  wrong  with 
me?" 

Her  small  face  had  suddenly  become  full  of  suspicion. 

"  Of  course  not.  But  come  with  me  and  speak  to  Doctor 
Ides." 


i64  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  opened  the  door. 

"Where  is  he?" 

Dolores  came  from  the  bedroom,  and  found  the  doctor  before 
the  Luinl.  She  held  out  her  hand,  with  an  evident  effort  to 
conceal  her  surprise  at  findinfi  him  there. 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  have  come.  Is  my  husband  show^ing  you 
the  apartment  ?  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  suppose  we  have  got  rather  a  show  bedroom,  perhaps. 
You  were  coming  to  see  it?  Did  Lady  Sarah  tell  vou  about 
it?J' 

"  Doctor  Ides  has  a  special  purpose  in  coming  here,  Dolo- 
retta,"  interrupted  Sir  Theodore. 

Directly  they  were  with  this  calm  elderly  man,  with  the  quiet 
blue  eyes,  and  the  quiet  pink  hands,  Sir  Theodore  felt  able  to 
tell  the  truth  to  Dolores. 

"Yes?     Shan't  we  go  somewhere  and  sit  down?" 

"  Let  us  come  in  here,"  said  her  husband. 

She  led  the  way  into  the  great  bedroom,  and  the  two  men 
followed. 

Sir  Theodore  shut  the  door. 

"What  is  it?" 

Dolores  spoke  to  Doctor  Ides.  She  sat  down  on  the  damask 
of  her  low  bed  and  took  hold  of  the  carved  wooden  rail. 

"  May  I  sit  down  ?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

He  took  a  chair. 

"  Your  husband  has  a  proposition  to  lay  before  you.  I  am 
concerned  in  it.     So  he  brought  me  here." 

"  Doloretta,  you  know  how  bad  Francis's  voice  has  been  for 
some  time  ?  " 

She  turned  towards  him,  leaning  her  other  hand  on  the  bed, 
/which  creaked  slightly. 

"  Of  course." 

She  stopped.  In  a  moment  she  had  grasped  the  truth  which 
had  so  far  eluded  her. 

"  Francis  is  ill !     His  throat !  " 

"  Yes,  that's  it." 

"Very  ill?" 

Her  glance  traveled  swiftly  to  the  doctor.  He  was  sur- 
prised by  the  ardent  light  which  shone  in  her  eyes,  and  could 
not  interpret  its  meaning. 

"  I'm  sorry  to  say  Mr.  Denzil  is  in  a  very  dangerous  con- 
dition." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  165 

"  What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  Why  did  you  wish  to  go 
through  the  apartment?" 

"  I  shall  have  to  operate  on  Mr.  Denzil's  throat  next  Friday. 
Your  husband  wanted  to  consult  you  as  to  whether  it  is  feasible 
for  the  operation  to  take  place  here." 

"Here!" 

She  lifted  the  hand  that  had  rested  on  the  bed  and  indicated 
the  room. 

"  Doloretta,  I  felt  sure  you  would  agree  with  me  that  we 
could  give  Francis  a  shelter  in  his  great  trouble,"  began  Sir 
Theodore  hastily,  and  with  a  sort  of  strong  decisive  earnest- 
ness quite  different  from  his  manner  hitherto.  "  It  is  a  matter 
of  life  or  death,  and " 

"  No,  no,"  she  interrupted  him.  "  You  don't  understand,. 
Theo.     Wait  a  moment,  please," 

She  got  up  gently  from  the  bed  and  walked  across  the  room, 
drawing  down  her  eyebrows  and  knitting  her  brows.  The  doc- 
tor watched  her,  and  took  no  notice  of  Sir  Theodore.  She 
turned  just  where  there  was  an  armchair,  and  sat  down  in  it^ 
with  her  thin  arms  on  her  knees,  leaning  very  much  forward. 

"  Is  it  a  matter  of  life  or  death?  "  she  asked  Doctor  Ides. 

"  Yes." 

*'  On  —  Friday!  "  she  said,  in  a  low  voice. 

Sir  Theodore  was  still  standing. 

"  Francis  wishes  to  be  at  little  Theo's  birthday  festivities,"" 
he  said. 

"  Edna  —  she  doesn't  know.     No,  she  doesn't  know." 

"  Nobody  knows  but  ourselves,  and  Francis,  of  course." 

"  He  is  not  going  to  tell  Edna?" 

*'  Not  till  after  Thursday." 

She  looked  at  the  two  men,  and  neither  of  them  could  under- 
stand what  was  passing  through  her  mind.  But  her  face  seemed 
to  both  of  them  to  hold  for  a  moment  an  expression  of  severity 
v/hich  made  her  look  suddenly  older. 

"  Poor "  she  paused,  then  added,  "  Francis!  " 

"Would  you  consent  to  the  operation  taking  place  here?" 
said  Doctor  Ides. 

"  Y>s,  oh  yes." 

The  look  of  severity  left  her  face  as  she  spoke,  and  there 
was  a  new  eagerness  that  was  almost  violent  in  her  voice.  Sir 
Theodore  moved,  turning  towards  Doctor  Ides. 

"  Ah!  "  he  said. 

But  the  intonation  of  his  voice  conveyed  a  "  There !     That's 


i66  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

the  woman  who's  mj^  wife!"  as  clearly  as  words  could  have 
done. 

"  Doctor  Ides,"  Dolores  added.  "  You  will  save  him?  You 
won't  let  him  die?  " 

Suddenly  she  seemed  to  realize  the  absurdity  of  such  appeals 
to  a  great  surgeon,  and  she  added  quietly: 

"  Tell  us  what  to  do.  Which  room,  or  rooms,  will  you  need? 
How  ought  they  to  be  prepared?  All  our  servants,  except  my 
maid,  are  Italians.  But  I  will  see  to  everything.  You  need 
not  be  afraid  that  your  orders  \von't  be  carried  out.  There  will 
be  a  nurse,  I  suppose?" 

"  Yes,  I  shall  have  to  get  a  trained  nurse.  If  it  were  in 
London  I  should  need  a  skilled  assistant  to  stay  within  call  for 
the  first  twenty-four  hours.     But  I  will  take  his  place  here." 

"  And  if  I  can  do  anything  you  have  only  to  tell  me.  Per- 
haps I  don't  look  very  strong,  but  I  am.  I've  got  more  re- 
sisting power  than  any  one  would  suppose." 

As  Dolores  said  the  last  words  a  look  of  almost  hard  de- 
fiance crossed  her  small  face,  and  her  eyes  shone  with  determina- 
tion. 

"Come,  come,  Doctor!"  she  added,  getting  up  swiftly. 
"You  haven't  seen  all  the  rooms.  I'll  show  them  to  you  — 
everything.  We've  lots  of  space  and  air.  And  we'll  take 
care  of  him  here  —  won't  we,  Theo?  —  as  he  could  never  be 
taken  care  of  among  strangers.  We'll  help  you  to  save  him. 
Doctor.     We'll  help  you  to  save  him." 

She  was  transformed.  The  languid,  exotic  looking  woman 
was  gone.  Energy,  decision,  almost  feverish  determination  were 
alive,  and  showed  In  her.  Sir  Theodore  thought  of  the  hats, 
the  woman  before  the  mirror  with  uplifted  hands.  He  heard 
the  rather  dawdling,  almost  plaintive  "  You  can  help  me,  Theo. 
Do  you  think  j'cllow  becoming?"  And  he  mar/eled  —  and 
was  thankful. 

He  was  proud  of  Dolores  at  that  moment. 

Perhaps  he  would  have  marveled  more  an  hour  later  had 
he  seen  his  wife.  She  lay  stretched  on  the  damask  of  her  bed, 
the  bedroom  door  locked.  Her  head  was  not  on  the  pil- 
lows, but  was  on  the  same  level  as  her  feet.  Her  hands  grasped 
the  bed-clothes  under  the  damask  covering.  And  she  was  cry- 
ing with  a  sort  of  desperation,  and  sobbing.  Her  tall,  slim 
body  was  shaken  by  convulsive  shudders.  In  her  attitude,  and 
in  the  sounds  that  came  from  her,  there  was  expressed  not  only 
despair,  but  also  a  sort  of  rage. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  167 

Before  Sir  Theodore  went  away  with  Doctor  Ides  he  had 
been  for  a  few  minutes  alone  with  his  wife.  Touched  and  de- 
lighted by  her  energy,  decision,  unselfishness —  as  he  supposed 
—  and  deep  anxiety  for  Francis,  and  longing  for  sympathy, 
he  had  unburdened  his  heart.  He  had  spoken  with  unreserve 
of  his  interview  with  Francis,  and  of  Francis's  wishes  in  case  of 
his  death. 

"  Francis  is  not  going  to  die,"  she  had  said ;  "  Doctor  Ides, 
you  and  I  —  we  won't  let  Francis  die." 

Then,  after  an  instant  of  silence,  she  had  added: 

"  Do  you  believe  in  faith  healing?" 

"  This  is  a  case  for  surgery." 

"  And  after  the  operation?  " 

"Afterwards?     Do  you  think 1" 

"  I'll  tell  you  to-night,  when  we  are  quiet,  what  we  can  do 
for  Francis." 

Then  Sir  Theodore  had  gone  away  with  Doctor  Ides,  and 
Dolores  had  gone  to  her  room  to  weep. 

Faith!  Where  was  it?  Had  she  faith  who  had  talked  of  it 
with  such  quiet  conviction  but  a  moment  ago? 

Destiny!  Destiny!  That  was  the  terrible  word  which  en- 
veloped her  mind  like  a  great  cloud  as  she  lay  and  wept. 


CHAPTER  XIII 

Thursday  came  and  Edna  Denzil  had  not  penetrated  the  secret 
of  her  husband.  She  w^as,  however,  getting  really  anxious 
about  the  condition  of  his  throat,  and  had  spoken  about 
it  to  him  more  than  once. 

"  You're  right,  Ed,"  he  had  answered.  "  I'm  going  to  at- 
tend to  it  directly  Theo's  birthday  is  over.  Meanwhile  I've 
given  up  smoking." 

That  had  satisfied  her  for  the  moment,  and  during  the  two 
days  before  the  birthday  the  mother  in  her  had  ascendancy 
over  the  wife.  Denzil  saw  that,  realized  how  it  helped  him, 
and  was  thankful.  The  three  children  reigned  and  were  joyous 
as  never  before.  Their  only  grievance  —  and  they  thought  of 
it  but  little,  being  far  too  exultantly  active  —  was  that  "  Uncle 
Thco  "  was  not  to  be  seen.  Sir  Theodore  dared  not  go  to 
the  Via  Venti  Settembre.  He  had  none  of  Denzil's  facial  im- 
passiveness,  and  could  not  trust  himself  in  the  presence  of  Edna. 


i68  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

On  the  birthday  he  would  make  a  mighty  effort,  and  carry 
things  through  somehow.  There  would  be  bustle,  excitement. 
Other  people  would  be  there.  But  he  must  keep  away  till 
then.  He  threw  himself  with  a  sort  of  sick  energy  into  the 
arrangements  made  necessary  in  the  apartment  by  the  operation 
on  Friday.  But  in  all  these  it  was  Dolores  who  took  the  lead, 
under  the  direction  of  Doctor  Ides.  Sir  Theodore  was  aston- 
ished by  her  practical  sense,  her  coolness  and  her  activity.  Al- 
though, till  now,  she  had  had  but  little  experience  of  illness, 
she  behaved  as  one  fearlessly  exercising  talents  long  perfected 
by  familiarity. 

"  Your  wife's  a  remarkably  practical  and  energetic  woman," 
Doctor  Ides  said  to  Sir  Theodore. 

Dolores  remarkably  practical  1  Yet  it  was  true.  No  doubt 
the  hidden  woman  was  coming  out  in  the  charming  woman  of 
the  world,  that  woman  who  seems  like  a  delicate  flower,  or  a 
delicious  butterfly,  till  she  is  given  the  opportunity  to  mother 
a  man  in  his  moment  of  need.  Sir  Theodore  learnt  a  new  re- 
spect for  his  wife,  almost  a  new  love  for  her.  He  had  not  sus- 
pected that  she  was  so  deeply  attached  to  the  Denzils  as  her 
present  conduct  seemed  to  show.  But  with  his  new  respect  for 
her  there  had  come  also  a  new  sense  of  her  mystery.  He  felt 
sometimes  that  though  he  had  lived  with  Dolores  for  ten  years, 
she  escaped  him,  whether  voluntarily  or  involuntarily  he  could 
not  decide.  Now  and  then,  since  the  moment  when  she  had 
been  told  of  Denzil's  condition,  Sir  Theodore  had  been  con- 
scious of  an  almost  cold  peculiarity  in  her  demeanor,  which 
troubled  him  vaguely  even  though  he  was  dominated,  was  almost 
obsessed,  by  his  grief  for  his  friend.  Specially  strange  to  him 
had  she  seemed  on  the  night  after  Doctor  Ides's  first  visit  to  the 
Palazzi  Barberini. 

Sir  Theodore  had  been  with  Doctor  Ides  at  the  Grand  Hotel 
after  dinner,  and  returned  to  the  palace  rather  late.  Almost 
directly  he  had  let  himself  in  he  heard  the  voice  of  Dolores 
calling  in  the  distance: 

"Theo!     Theo!" 

"  I  am  coming !  "  he  answered. 

"Theo!     Theo!  "  repeated  the  voice  insistently. 

Hastily  he  shut  the  front  door,  put  down  his  hat,  and  went 
towards  the  sound. 

He  was  feeling  tired,  strung  up,  on  the  edge  of  his  nerves, 
and  terribly  depressed.  He  would  have  been  glad  to  see  no 
one  just  then.     Solitude  was  almost  a  necessity  to  his  over- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  169 

wrought  mind.  He  found  Dolores  in  a  dressing-gown  wa'ting 
for  him  in  the  doorwa}'  of  a  small  sitting-room  which  they  sel- 
dom used,  and  which  was  called  the  moss-room  on  account  of  the 
moss-green  color  of  its  hangings,  its  carpet  and  its  furniture. 

"  Come  In  here  for  a  minute,  Theo,  please,"  she  said.  "  I 
heard  your  key." 

"  From  here !  "  he  exclaimed  in  sheer  amazement. 

She  nodded.  He  noticed  that  the  darkness  under  her  eyes 
looked  rather  more  pronounced  than  usual,  and  that  her  lips 
were  dry  and  colorless,  but  oddly  decisive. 

"  I  said  I  would  tell  you  to-night,  when  we  were  quiet,  what 
we  could  do  to  help  Francis.     Sit  down  here  by  me." 

She  sat  down  on  a  small  sofa.     Sir  Theodore  sat  by  her. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  whether  you  believe  in  what  you  are  going 
to  do,  or  not,"  she  said,  speaking  fast  and  quietly.  "  Each 
night,  from  now  —  without  telling  Francis  anything  about  it, 
that  is  essential  —  before  falling  asleep  you  must  do  this. 
Speak  to  your  sub-conscious  mind,  as  if  you  were  addressing  a 
person,  and  order  it  during  your  sleeping  hours  to  concentrate 
all  its  energies  upon  Francis,  continuously  suggesting  to  his 
sub-conscious  mind  that  he  will  have  the  strength  to  recover 
rapidly  from  the  operation,  that  no  complication  can  possibly 
intervene,  and  that  he  will  certainly  get  well.  I  am  going  to 
do  the  same." 

"  Do  you  believe  In  the  efficacy  of  such  a  proceeding?  " 

"  Certainly  I  do.  A  well-known  scientific  man  in  the  United 
States  applied  this  mental  process  in  one  hundred  cases  of  illness, 
and  in  not  one  case  did  it  fail  to  effect  the  cure  of  the  patient. 
But  you  must  not  tell  Francis  what  we  are  doing." 

"Why  not?" 

"  Because  he  might  doubt  Its  being  any  good  and  set  up 
auto-suggestion  antagonistic  to  us.  You  will  do  what  I 
suggest?  " 

"But  If  I  doubt " 

"That  doesn't  matter  —  will  you  do  It?  Do  you  wish 
Francis  to  get  well?" 

"  Doloretta!  are  you  mad?  " 

"  Not  at  all,"  she  said,  still  In  the  curiously  Inflexible  manner 
which  he  had  noticed  in  her  during  the  whole  conversation. 
"  But  if  you  do  sincerely  wish  Francis  to  get  well,  as  I  do, 
you  will  not  leave  any  m.eans  untried  to  help  him,  even  if  it 
seems  to  you  absurd.     V/ell  ?  " 

"  I  certainly  will  do  what  j'ou  suggest." 


I70  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Every  night  till  Francis  is  on  the  road  to  complete  re- 
covery? " 

"  Complete "  he  checked  himself.     "  Yes,"  he  said. 

"  Begin  to-night.  Speak  as  if  you  were  speaking  to  a  per- 
son who  had  the  power  to  work  what  is  called  a  miracle." 

She  got  up  from  the  little  green  sofa  and  left  him. 

He  sat  for  some  time  alone  in  the  small  room,  thinking 
vaguely  of  the  mystery  of  mind,  of  life,  of  sex,  of  death,  of  the 
mystery  of  unity  and  separation.  And  this  faith  healing!  How 
strangely  Doloretta  was  coming  out,  like  a  creature  of  resource, 
practical,  and  almost  mystical,  out  of  a  strange  and  dark  seclu- 
sion! Francis  —  would  not  he  be  almost  amazed  if  he  knew 
how  her  energies —  energies  her  husband  had  not  suspected  in 
her — 'Were  being  concentrated  upon  him?  But  was  there  not 
an  odd  coldness,  something  almost  hard,  in  her  way  of  setting 
to  work? 

When  Sir  Theodore  went  to  bed  Dolores  was  apparently 
asleep.  As  soon  as  he  had  lain  down  he  obeyed  her  directions. 
He  issued  the  command  to  his  sub-conscious  mind  to  occupy 
itself  solely  with  the  ill  man  during  his  sleep.  Was  the  sub- 
conscious mind  in  haste  to  carry  out  the  order?  Sir  Theodore 
expected  to  be  for  a  long  time  awake,  perhaps  scarcely  to  sleep 
at  all.  The  next  morning  he  was  aware  that  he  had  become 
unconscious  almost  immediately  after  obeying  the  direction  of 
Dolores.  Surely  this  fact  was  of  good  omen.  He  spoke  of  it 
to  her. 

"  The  great  thing  is  for  us  to  have  complete  faith  in  Francis's 
recovery,"  she  answered. 

"  But  you  said  it  didn't  matter " 

"  Because  it  is  better  to  begin  without  faith  than  not  to 
begin  at  all." 

"Have  you  complete  faith  in  Francis's  recovery?"  said  Sir 
Theodore,  looking  narrowly  at  his  wife  with  his  bright  and 
searching  eyes. 

"  I  have,  Theo,"  she  answered  steadily.  "  Francis  is  going 
to  get  well." 

Many  times  before  the  Thursday  morning  Sir  Theodore  re- 
peated those  words  to  himself,  and  seldom  without  a  lurking 
wonder  connected  with  Dolores. 

His  waking  on  Thursday  was  one  of  the  most  painful  ex- 
periences of  his  life. 

Dolores  was  already  up.  As  he  opened  his  eyes  he  saw  her 
at  the  far  end  of  the  big  room  taking  a  handkerchief  out  of  a 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  171 

drawer.  He  did  not  move.  She  bent  down  almost  to  the  floor 
and  did  something.  The  handkerchief  disappeared.  Then  she 
went  to  a  bureau,  opened  it,  and  took  from  it  a  whip,  her  pres- 
ent for  h'ttle  Theo.  She  stood  still,  looking  at  the  whip.  He 
saw  the  long  curling  eyelashes  against  her  white  cheek.  She 
drew  the  whip  two  or  three  times  through  her  fingers,  as  if 
meditatively,  took  some  tissue  paper,  carefully  wrapped  the  whip 
up  in  it,  enclosed  the  tissue  paper  in  brown  paper,  and  tied  the 
whole  parcel  with  narrow  brown  ribbon.  As  her  husband 
watched,  at  first  vaguely  then  gradually  with  the  complete  un- 
derstanding of  entire  wakefulness,  he  hated  the  truth  of  that 
day  with  a  deadly  hatred. 

How  would  Edna  bear  the  telling?  What  was  to  be  done 
about  the  children?  Were  they  to  know  nothing?  Was  every- 
thing to  be  kept  from  them  until,  perhaps,  their  father  was 
dead? 

Dolores  went  out  of  the  room.  He  felt  sure  she  was  going 
to  the  room  where  on  the  morrow  the  operation  was  to  take 
place.  She  had  left  her  gift  lying  on  the  bureau.  Little  Theo's 
birthday ! 

Sir  Theodore  got  out  of  bed  quickly.  As  soon  as  he  was 
on  his  feet  he  felt  a  certain  alleviation  of  his  misery  and  dread. 
He  went  swiftly  to  his  dressing-room  and  took  a  cold  bath, 
turned  on  the  shower  bath  and  stood  under  it  for  two  or  three 
minutes.  When  he  was  dressed  he  wrapped  up  his  present  for 
little  Theo,  a  small  gold  watch  with  the  boy's  initials  engraved 
on  it. 

The  giving  of  the  presents  was  to  take  place  at  half-past  ten. 
At  half-past  nine  Doctor  Ides  called  at  the  palace.  He  had 
engaged  the  nurse.  She  was  an  Irish  girl  called  Ida  Jennings. 
Now  he  brought  her  with  him.  Dolores  was  with  them  for 
a  short  time.  When  she  came  away  from  the  interview  Sir 
Theodore  said  to  her: 

"  Will  Edna  ever  be  able  to  forgive  Francis  for  this?" 

"  How  can  I  know?  "  she  answered. 

"Think!     Could  you  forgive  it?" 

"  I  think  I  could  forgive  anything  that  was  done  simply  and 
solely  out  of  love  for  me.  I  wonder  if  the  carriage  is  here. 
The  nurse  seems  very  nice.  I  don't  think  she  is  going  to  be 
diflficult.     Have  you  got  your  present  for  Theo?" 

She  began  quickly  to  draw  on  her  gloves.  They  were  white. 
She  was  dressed  in  a  pale  blue-green  gown.  As  he  glanced  at 
I'.cr  critically  Sir  Theodore  wished  she  had  put  on  something 


172  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

darker.     He  thought  she  looked  like  a  woman  who  was  going  to 
a  wedding. 

"Do  you  likelt,  Theo?" 

"  It's  a  prett}^  color." 

"But  you  don't  like  it?" 
I    was    only    thinking    that    perhaps    something     rather 


darker' 

"  This  is  a  festa"  she  interrupted. 

"  I  know.     But  —  think  of  to-morrow." 

She  put  her  hand  on  his  arm. 

"  Francis  is  going  to  get  well.     Remember  that." 

Her  fingers  closed  on  his  arm  tightly. 

"  Help  Francis,  as  I  am  helping  him,  by  knowing  that  it  is 
all  right,  that  he  is  going  to  recover." 

"  Have  you  said  so  to  Doctor  Ides?  " 

"  Doctor  Ides  is  a  surgeon.  He  helps  w^ith  the  knife.  We 
must  help  with  our  souls.     There  are  many  instruments." 

"  The  carriage  is  at  the  door,  signora,"  said  Carlino,  coming 
in  with  his  anxious  look. 

Sir  Theodore  put  little  Theo's  watch  in  his  pocket. 

"Come,  Doloretta!"  he  said. 

"  The  nerve  of  women !  "  he  thought.  "  Why,  she's  got  a 
will  that  I  never  suspected.  She  shames  me.  Can  she  have  one 
of  those  strange  instincts  peculiar  to  women  that  tells  her  Fran- 
cis will  recover  ?  " 

He  resolved  to  let  Dolores  carry  him  with  her.  He  re- 
solved if  possible  to  give  himself  to  her  belief  as  a  swimmer 
gives  himself  to  a  wave.  Perhaps  she  knew.  He  looked  into 
her  dark  eyes,  searching  in  them  for  some  strange  truth  con- 
nected with  the  Denzils.     She  lowered  her  heavy  lids. 

"There's  Carelli!"  said  Sir  Theodore,  as  the  carriage  was 
passing  the  Ministry  of  Finance. 

Dolores  looked  up,  and  saw  Cesare  Carelli  mounted  on  a 
big-boned  roan  mare,  bred  in  Ireland,  and  very  clever  over 
stone  walls.  He  had  hunted  her  the  previous  season.  He  took 
off  his  hat  with  a  slight  smile,  showing  for  an  instant  his  round 
white  forehead,  and  thick  curly  black  hair.  His  steady  and 
shining  eyes  gazed  gravely  at  the  husband  and  wafe  under  his 
dense  brows,  seeming  almost  to  contradict  his  faintly  smiling 
lips.  The  mare  plunged  violently,  switching  to  and  fro  her 
short,  broad  tail,  and  looking  sideways  with  her  large  eyes, 
shifty  and  very  feminine.  A  tram  passed  and  hid  mare  and 
rider. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  173 

"  How  strong  and  well  the  fellow  looks !  "  said  Sir  Theodore, 
almost  as  if  with  condemnation.  "  He's  kept  a  horse  or  two 
though  he  isn't  hunting." 

"  I  daresay  he  will  hunt  again." 

**  When  a  certain  lady  gives  it  up,  perhaps,"  said  Sir  Theo- 
dore. Then,  with  a  sigh,  he  changed  the  conversation.  The 
sight  of  the  strong,  square-shouldered  and  lithe  j'oung  fellow 
mounted  on  the  big  clever-looking  mare  had  oppressed  him. 
All  these  healthy  lives  —  and  his  friend. 

"  Now  for  it !  "  he  muttered,  as  the  carnage  drew  up  before 
the  house  in  which  the  Denzils  lived. 

"It's  Uncle  Theo!"^ 

There  was  a  shrill  pipe  from  somewhere  above.  Sir  Theo- 
dore looked  up  quickly,  and  saw  the  rosy  face  of  Iris  at  a 
window,  no  longer  judicial,  but  melted  by  excitement  into  a 
countenance  that  might  appropriately  have  belonged  to  a  suc- 
cessful plaintiff  who  had  just  been  awarded  enormous  damages. 
The  head  of  little  Theo  joined  hers  with  a  cry,  and  Vi,  looking 
roguishly  demure,  and  twisting  her  tiny  nose,  was  visible  for 
an  instant  in  the  background,  uplifted  in  the  large  arms  of 
the  ample  Marianna,  who  nodded  and  smiled  at  the  visitors 
with  the  unselfconscious  warmth  and  intimacy  of  a  valued  Ital- 
ian domestic. 

Sir  Theodore  waved  his  hand.  And  as  he  made  the  lively 
gesture  he  also  made  a  determined  effort,  and  forced  himself 
out  of  the  black  region  of  sorrowful  apprehension. 

"Those  children!"  he  said. 

He  turned  to  his  wife,  who  was  now  going  up  the  steps  into 
the  house. 

"It  can't  be!  It  shan't  be!"  he  said.  "  Doloretta,  I  be- 
live  you  are  right.  I  will  believe  you  know.  Francis  will 
never  be  the  same  again.  That's  impossible.  But  he  will  re- 
cover.    He  will  live." 

"  Send  that  to  him,"  she  answered ;  "  send  it  to-night,  when 
you're  asleep." 


CHAPTER  XIV 

To  the  present-giving  the  only  people  invited  from  outside, 
besides  Dolores  and  Sir  Theodore,  were  Lady  Sarah  Ides,  who 
was  devoted  to  the  children,  Signor  Carpi,  little  Theo's  Italian 
teacher,    and    Cavaliere    Giuseppe    Erdardi,    dei    Marchesi    di 


174  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Villaserena.  The  presence  of  this  latter  was  due  to  Theos  in- 
sistent petitions  which  on  such  an  occasion  his  parents  were 
unable  to  resist.  It  had  been  promised  to  Theo  that  as  soon 
as  he  was  nine  he  should  be  allowed  to  begin  fencing  lessons. 
Signor  Erdardi  was  one  of  the  best  known  fencing  masters  in 
Rome.  Denzil  had  practised  with  him,  and  had  selected  him 
to  teach  Theo,  who,  having  been  taken  to  his  school  to  see  his 
youngest  pupils  at  work,  had  on  the  spot  conceived  an  almost 
awful  devotion  for  the  square-built,  bright-eyed,  short-bearded, 
and  iron  muscled  Sicilian,  whose  "  Giii  seduto!  Glii!  Giii!" 
rang  through  the  great  bare  room,  and  whose  play  with  the 
foils  filled  the  boy  with  a  respect  that  sent  a  sort  of  heat,  like  a 
flush,  through  all  his  small  bodj^ 

"  I  want  the  Cavaliere  on  my  birthday,  mums,"  he  had  said, 
growing  rather  red,  but  looking  at  his  mother  firmly. 

"  Cavaliere  Erdardi  ?  "  she  had  answered,  in  surprise.  "  Do 
you  mean  with  all  the  children  ?  " 

"  No,  mums.  How  could  he  come  with  a  lot  of  squits?  I 
want  him  for  my  presents  in  the  morning,  when  we're  'ultimate** 

It  was  evident  that  Theo  intended  to  confer  upon  the  Cava- 
liere the  highest  token  possible  of  his  respect,  to  show  that  he 
set  him  quite  apart  from  all  the  other  fencing  masters  and 
gentlemen  of  Rome. 

Denzil,  when  he  was  informed  of  the  proposition,  smiled 
and  handed  it  on  to  the  Cavaliere,  who  very  seriously,  and  with 
every  observance  of  strict  etiquette,  accepted  it. 

He  had  arrived  before  the  Cannynges,  dressed  in  a  long 
frock-coat,  and  carrying  in  his  sinewy  and  broad-fingered  hand 
a  neatly  folded  pair  of  yellow  kid  gloves,  and  was  engaging 
Denzil  in  conversation,  while  the  children,  in  another  room, 
watched  for  the  rest  of  their  expected  visitors.  Theo  would 
have  remained  stolidly  with  the  men,  attentive  to  the  tremendous 
pronouncements  of  great  truths  by  the  lips  of  his  deity,  had 
not  his  loyal  heart  feared  to  cast  a  seeming  slight  upon  Uncle 
Theo  if  he  omitted  a  welcome  from  the  window. 

Edna  Denzil  was  busy  tying  up  a  last  parcel  and  giving  one 
or  two  directions  to  the  servants.  But  as  the  children  fell 
upon  Sir  Theodore,  after  more  quietly  and  formally  greeting 
Dolores,  she  came  in  smiling  and  happy,  joyous  in  the  chil- 
dren's joy. 

"  Dolores,  I  am  glad  you  let  me  persuade  you,"  she  said. 
"  It  would  not  have  been  half  a  family  festa  v»nthout  you." 

She  gently  took  the  hands  of  Dolores  in  both  of  hers.     Sud- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  i75 

denly  Dolores  bent  down,  and,  with  an  unreserve  seldom  shown 
in  public  by  one  woman  towards  another,  gave  Edna  a  soft,  and 
rather  long  kiss,  not  on  her  lips,  but  on  her  cheek  near  her 
hair.  And  almost  as  part  of  the  kiss  she  breathed  an  "  Oh, 
Edna!" 

"  Indeed  I  mean  it,"  said  Edna,  surprised  but  touched.  For 
Dolores  had  never  before  shown  such  genuine  and  intimate 
feeling  tov/ards  her.  Approaching  her  face  closer  to  that  of 
Dolores,  with  her  peering  mannerism,  she  saw  tears  in  her 
friend's  eyes.  Was  Dolores  thinking  of  her  empty  home  ?  Edna 
believed  she  was,  and  was  filled  with  &  new  tenderness  towards 
her. 

"  The  children  think  just  as  I  do,  I  know,"  she  said.  "  Theo 
is  quite  puffed  up  by  pride  at  j'our  caring  to  come.  After  the 
presents  he's  going  to  do — "  she  almost  whispered — "a  little 
recitation  to  surprise  Francis;  a  bit  of  Shakespeare  and  '  Cross- 
ing the  Bar!'" 

"  '  Crossing  the  Bar! '  "  said  Dolores. 

"Yes,  Tennyson's.     Don't  you  like  it?" 

"Yes." 

"  Perhaps  you  think  it's  not  very  suitable  to  a  child." 

"  Yes,  yes,  that's  it,"  Dolores  said  hastily.  "  Don't  let  him 
say  that,  Edna,  to-day.     Don't  let  him  say  '  Crossing  the  Bar.'  " 

"  Oh,  but  it's  too  late  to  change  now.  And  he  has  learnt 
to  say  it  not  at  all  badly.      Here's  Lady  Sally." 

Lady  Sarah  cam.e  in  with  her  characteristic  impulsive  move- 
ment, as  unselfconscious  and,  for  the  moment,  almost  as  buoy- 
ant as  a  wave.  She  knew  nothing.  With  a  wnde  gesture, 
that  only  one  who  had  been  a  mother  could  have  made,  she  took 
possession  of  the  children  for  a  greeting,  then,  all  disarranged, 
with  hanging  veil  and  floating  scarf,  her  bag  bursting  open  in 
her  hand  and  showering  out  its  contents,  she  turned  to  the 
grown-ups,  quite  secondary,  and  proud  of  it,  to-day.  In  the 
pleasant  tumult  caused  by  her  entiy  the  protest  of  Dolores  was 
swallowed  up,  and  as  if  it  had  never  been.  But  Sir  Theodore, 
rendered  almost  cruelly  alive  by  the  circumstances  in  which  he 
was  involved,  had  overheard  it  in  the  midst  of  his  give-and-take 
with  the  children,  and  had  longed  to  second  it.  The  irony  of 
Edna's  choice  must  be  surely  unbearable  to  Denzil.  Yet  how 
to  make  a  diversion? 

There  was  a  bustle  over  the  contents  of  Lady  Sarah's  bag, 
which  nearly  ended  in  minor  tragedy ;  for  Theo,  in  his  ardor 
of  politeness,  got  hold  of  his  own  dropped  present,   and   had 


176  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

difficulty  in  not  feeling  that  it  was  something  in  the  form  of 
an  animal's  head.  He  bravel}-  tried  to  trick  his  intelligence, 
and,  as  he  handed  the  parcel  back  to  Lad}'  Sarah,  said  earnestly: 

"  I  haven't  felt  what  it  is,  I  haven't  really.  It  only  seemed 
a  tiny  little  bit  like  something's  head  with  ears." 

"  Sumping's  head !  "  piped  Viola,  with  staring  eyes. 

"What's  head?"  demanded  Iris  almost  sternly. 

"  Come,  Iris,  would  you  like  me  to  play  you  a  tune?"  said 
Dolores,  knowing  the  weakness  of  Iris,  and  anxious  to  make  a 
diversion. 

For  she  felt  that  Denzil  was  coming  towards  the  room  though 
she  did  not  see  him.  And  she  dreaded  unspeakably  to  see  him, 
and,  still  more,  feared  her  own  dread. 

"  He  is  going  to  recover.  He  is  going  to  recover,"  she  kept 
repeating  to  herself,  as  she  sat  down  before  the  piano,  with 
Iris  standing  at  her  side,  and  gazing  intently  at  her. 

"Why  do  you  look  like  that?" 

A  firm  voice  startled  her.     It  came  from  Iris. 

"Like  what,  you  little  inquisitor?"  she  asked,  calling  up 
a  quick  smile  to  her  lips. 

"  As  if  you  wanted  to  make  somebody  go  and  do  something 
" —  and  he  didn't  want." 

"  What  shall  I  play  to  stop  her?  " 

The  thought  rushed  through  the  mind  of  Dolores,  and,  with- 
out consciously  knowing  what  she  was  going  to  play,  she  began 
the  Barcarolle  from  the  Contes  d'Hoffmann.  Instantly  the 
countenance  of  Iris  changed,  "  went  to  pieces,"  as  Lady  Sarah 
expressed  it,  melting  into  a  honeyed  expression  of  lax  pleasure, 
and  almost  weak  gentleness,  that  was  comic  in  its  abrupt  aban- 
don. She  drew  closer  and  closer  to  Dolores,  looking  from  the 
player's  face  to  her  hands,  and  back  again,  and  again,  twisting 
and  pouting  lips  that  seemed  to  be  savoring  some  delicious  bon- 
bon, and  slowly  shifting  her  left  leg  in  a  languid  exercise  that  al- 
most grotesquely  indicated  complete  subjection.  Soon  she  was 
nestled  against  the  player,  as  if  she  needed  to  feel  one  with 
Dolores,  and  that  she  had  something  to  do  wnih.  the  production 
of  the  sounds  that  subdued  her  to  rapture.  She  sighed.  The 
leg  was  never  still.  Dolores  felt  large  eyes  fixed  adoringly  upon 
Ijer.  Striving  to  give  herself  wholly  to  the  task,  she  played  the 
sugary  and  luscious  melody  more  rhythmically,  with  more  pro- 
nounced and  swaying  languor,  looking  down  at  her  long  fingers. 

But  suddenly  she  felt  that  Denzil  was  entering  the  room. 

She  had  not  seen  him  since  she  had  known  of  his  fate.     He 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  177 

had  of  course  been  told  of  her  knowledge  of  it.  How  would 
they  greet  one  another?  Iris  pressed  more  closely  against  her. 
If  only  the  child  would  lower  those  staring  and  worshiping 
eyes!     If  only  Edna  would  leave  the  room!     If  only 

"No!     No!" 

Iris  was  protesting  as  the  music  faded. 

"But,  Iris " 

"  No,  no!     I  want  some  more." 

"  But  it's  time  for  the  presents,  I  expect." 

Denzil  was  beside  her.  She  turned  on  the  seat  and  felt  his 
hand  on  hers,  and  heard  his  whispering  voice  saying: 

"  Iris  is  a  tyrant  to  a  player  like  you." 

It  was  over  —  the  meeting.     She  got  up,  saying  to  herself: 

"You  are  going  to  recover!     You  are  going  to  recover!" 

She  did  not  look  into  Denzil's  face  as  she  answered  lightly: 

"  She  must  come  to  the  Barberini.  I  will  play  to  her  for 
an  hour.     I  seldom  get  such  an  audience." 

"  Here's  Signor  Carpi!  " 

The  master,  big,  mercurial,  with  turned  up  moustaches  and 
ever-moving  hands,  came  in  with  a  laugh,  as  if  determined  to 
show  he  was  nothing  of  a  pedagogue  when  pleasure  was  in  the 
wind.  Little  Theo,  feeling  himself  the  host,  ran  to  salute  him 
and  set  him  at  his  ease  in  this  gracious  company. 

"We're  all  here  now!"  was  the  cry. 

And  a  sudden  hush  descended  upon  the  gathering.  In  it 
Dolores  stole  her  first  glance  at  Denzil,  and  started.  He 
looked,  she  thought,  exactly  as  usual,  calm,  rather  impassive, 
strongly  sincere,  bull-like  still.     What  had  she  expected? 

"Come  along,  children!"  said  Edna  gaily.  "Show  us  the 
waj''  to  the  room.  Franzi,  a^ou  take  charge  of  Vi.  It's  your 
day,  Theo.     You  lead  us  off." 

"  Yes,  mums." 

Theo  looked  round  with  solemn  excitement.  His  eyes  rested 
on  his  hero,  the  Cavaliere,  who  was  standing  bolt  upright  with 
his  arms  at  his  sides,  the  yellow  gloves  firmly  held  in  his  left 
hand.     Then  he  glanced  hesitatingly  at  his  mother. 

"  Ought  I  to  — < — "  he  began,  almost  in  a  w4iisper,  and  drew 
in  his  under  lip. 

"  Lead  the  way  with  the  Cavaliere,"  said  Edna  quickly. 

"  Prego,  Cavaliere!"  she  added,  with  a  gesture. 

The  Cavaliere  looked  much  surprised,  but  he  submitted  V\-ith 
a  formal  bow,  to  this  extraordinary  infringement  of  the  rules 
of  etiquette;  and,  moving  with  a  bold  suppleness  which  ne\er 


178  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

deserted  him,  stepped  forward,  while  Theo  kept  close  at  his 
side  endeavoring,  with  eyes  fastened  on  his  legs,  to  emulate 
his  glorious  bearing  and  deportment. 

The  dining-room  had  been  set  apart  for  the  function.  The 
table  was  pushed  up  against  the  wall  at  one  end,  and  on  it 
in  glory  stood  the  birthday  cake,  miraculously  firm,  as  it  seemed 
to  Iris  and  Viola  who  had  stirred  it.  Wine,  vermouth  and 
lemonade  in  jugs,  with  many  glasses  flanked  it.  At  the  other 
end  of  the  rather  long  room  was  placed  the  "  birthday  chair," 
one  of  the  large  upright  chairs  with  straight  arms,  covered  with 
red  damask,  which  are  so  often  to  be  seen  in  Roman  drawing- 
rooms.  Beside  it  was  a  table.  In  front  of  it  were  some  chairs 
carelessly  arranged  for  the  present-givers.  Edna  wanted  the 
little  affair  to  seem  an  important  function  to  the  children,  but 
she  did  not  wish  it  to  be  formal.  If  it  were,  the  brats  would 
be  chilled  and  the  grown-ups  would  be  bored. 

"  Come,  Lady  Sally!  Where  are  you  going  to  sit?  Dolores, 
do  you  know  Signor  Carpi?  He's  turning  Theo  into  a  classic 
at  express  speed.  My  own  child  stumps  me  over  gerunds  and 
supines.  But  I  am  perfect  in  mensa.  Don't  laugh,  Signor 
Carpi.  Vi,  sit  by  father  close  to  the  table.  You  have  to  begin. 
Have  you  got  it  ready?" 

"  Yes,"  whispered  Viola,  slightly  drooping  her  head  and 
blushing,  as  she  gazed  at  a  small  parcel,  carefully  wrapped  in 
silver  paper,  which  she  was  holding  tightly  with  both  hands. 

She  nestled  against  Denzil. 

"Will  he  like  it?"  she  murmured  earnestly. 

Anxiety  was  beginning  to  wake  in  her.  Denzil  put  his  arm 
round  her. 

"  Tremendously,"  he  answered. 

"  Oh,  my  little  ones!  "  he  thought. 

He  stared  before  him.  Little  Theo  had  now  taken  his  seat 
on  the  red  damask  chair  with  a  sort  of  modest  pride,  trying  not 
to  look  too  expectant,  but  quivering  with  anticipation.  His 
brown  hair  fell  over  his  brow.  He  was  dressed  in  a  new  suit, 
with  trousers,  an  Eton  jacket,  an  Eton  collar  and  a  small  black 
tie.  This  suit  emphasized  his  slimness.  He  was  a  mere  wisp 
of  a  boy,  though  not  short  for  his  age.  But  he  was  a  wisp  full 
of  fire,  which  glowed  through  his  happy  innocence,  and  seemed 
fed  by  it.  Even  the  Cavaliere,  searcher  of  the  hearts  of  men 
though  he  was  —  "  character  comes  out  when  a  man  puts  on  the 
mask  In  my  school !  "  was  a  favorite  saying  of  his  —  even  he 
obsen^ed  his  future  pupil  with  a  favorable,  though  instinctively 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  179 

appraising  eye,  and  by  a  slight  nod  indicated  that  he  was  satis- 
fied with  his  bearing. 

There  was  a  rustle.  The  servants  came  in,  smiling  and 
quite  unembarrassed,  behind  the  assembly  of  chairs,  greeted  by 
eager  nods  from  the  hero  of  the  day,  who  then  held  on  to  the 
arms  of  his  throne,  and  tried  not  to  stare  at  Viola's  little  parcel. 

"  Now  then,  Vi !  "  whispered  her  father,  making  one  of 
those  strange  efforts  which  teach  a  man  he  has  greatness,  as 
well  as  smallness,  within  him,  some  of  the  resources  of  the  divine 
as  well  as  the  frailties  of  the  human  being. 

"  You  come  too!  " 

Denzil  took  her  minute  hand  and  got  up.  And  the  touch 
of  that  tiny  hand  in  that  moment  felt  to  him  like  the  touch  of 
life,  and  of  all  that  a  man  clings  to  in  this  world. 

Viola's  present  was  a  pocket-book,  and  had  an  immense  suc- 
cess, all  applauding  vigorously  when  its  red  morocco  beauties 
emerged  from  the  silver  paper,  led  and  incited  thereto  by  Lady 
Sarah,  who  threw  herself  into  the  spirit  of  the  occasion  with 
a  soft  exuberance  that  might  have  induced  the  stars  to  dance 
in  their  courses.  Her  genial  and  heartfelt  gaiety  seemed  to 
undulate  in  waves  through  the  room,  and  to  set  everybody  and 
everything  floating  contentedly  loose  from  all  moorings  of  or- 
dinary life.  She  helped  Denzil  as  he  had  not  thought  it  pos- 
sible he  could  be  helped  through  the  ordeal.  It  was  as  if  she 
knew,  and  let  loose  a  torrent  of  pure  and  sparkling  humanity 
that  was  irresistible  even  by  agony  of  the  soul.  Dolores  in 
that  hour  came  really  to  love  her.  And  Sir  Theodore  blessed 
the  instinct  which  had  led  the  Denzils  to  invite  her  on  that 
day.  But  even  her  influence  lay  numb  when  the  moment  ar- 
rived which  Dolores  had  been  dreading  ever  since  her  conversa- 
tion with  Edna. 

The  table  by  the  red  damask  chair  was  completely  covered 
at  last.  The  gold  watch  of  Sir  Theodore  ticked  in  the  shadow 
of  the  bulldog's  head,  with  an  inkstand  instead  of  a  brain, 
which  Lady  Sarah  had  flung  upon  the  floor  at  her  joyous  entry. 
The  whip  of  Dolores  was  curled  in  a  sporting  manner  round 
Edna's  pair  of  ideal  riding  gaiters.  A  rather  gaudy  pin,  repre- 
senting the  British  flag,  the  tribute  of  Signor  Carpi,  defied 
battle  and  breeze  in  Theo's  necktie.  A  fencing  mask  given 
by  the  Cavaliere  reposed  upon  an  illustrated  Shakespeare  "  from 
your  loving  father."  Iris's  selection,  an  air-gun,  pointed  its 
muzzle  at  the  company.  And  little  gifts  from  the  servants, 
with  "  make-weights  "  from  Edna,  boxes  of  chocolates,  and  sev- 


i8o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

eral  handsome  presents  from  relations  and  friends  at  a  distance, 
completed  a  brave  show,  which  filled  Theo's  heart  with  inex- 
pressible pride  and  pleasure,  and  affection  for  all  humanity. 
It  seemed  that  the  whole  world  was  devoted  to  him,  and  thank- 
ful to  see  him  nine.     In  return  he  loved  the  whole  world. 

Denzil,  under  the  impression  that  the  ceremony  was  now  at 
an  end,  got  up.     "  Shall  we  cut  the  cake?  "  he  whispered. 

"  One  moment,  Franzi !  "  said  Edna.  "  We  have  a  little 
surprise  for  you." 

Dolores  began  to  arrange  the  veil  on  her  hat. 

"  A  surprise  ?  " 

Denzil  was  still  on  his  feet. 

''What  a  frightful  cold  he  has!"  Lady  Sarah  thought,  with 
com.passion.     "  I  really  must  get  Mervyn  to  see  him." 

For  a  moment  her  mind  glanced  away  to  the  Grand  Hotel 
and  the  "  perfectly  happy  man,"  She  looked  again  at  Denzil 
and  the  animation  died  out  of  her  lined  and  blunt-featured  face, 
which  immediately  showed  the  strong  impress  of  intimate  sor- 
row. 

"  Yes,"  said  Edna. 

Then  speaking  to  the  company  generally,  she  added: 

"  Theo  is  going  to  speak  two  short  pieces  which  he's  been 
studying  up  for  to-day,  as  a  surprise  for  his  father.  1  thought 
you  wouldn't  mind  hearing  them,  perhaps.  The  first  is  the 
speech  of  King  Henry  the  Fifth,  '  Once  more  into  the  breach.* 
The  second  is  Tennyson's  '  Crossing  the  Bar.'  " 

Denzil  sat  down  quietly  and  turned  his  eyes  towards  his 
little  son.  He  took  hold  of  Viola's  hand.  Meanwhile  Edna 
was  speaking  in  Italian  to  the  Cavaliere  and  Signor  Carpi,  who 
comprehended  not  one  word  of  English,  and  was  giving  them 
some  idea  of  the  drift  of  the  two  recitations. 

"  Lo  capisco!  Lo  capisco!^*  Signor  Carpi  kept  exclaiming, 
wagging  his  large  head,  and  making  faces  of  keen  intelligence. 

The  Cavaliere  listened  with  grave  attention,  and  the  air  of 
a  man  entering  a  province  till  now  wholly  unknown  to  him, 
but  into  which  he  goes  fearlessly,  and  with  the  full  intention 
of  bearing  himself  in  a  thoroughly  suitable  manner. 

"  Si !  —  Si !  "  he  said,  and  again,  "  Si !  —  Si !  " 

And  he  drew  himself  up  a  little  more,  squared  his  large 
shoulders,  placed  his  gloves  on  his  left  knee,  and  directed  his 
bright  and  unswerving  eyes  towards  the  red  damask  chair.  The 
servants  listened  also  while  their  mistress  spoke.  And  they 
whispered  to  each  other. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  i8i 

"Look  at  the  signorlno!  He  stands  Just  like  a  little 
soldier!" 

At  a  sign  from  his  mother  Theo  had  got  up  from  his  chair. 
He  looked  extremely  serious,  though  very  boyish,  anxious,  deeply 
anxious  to  do  well,  but  not  self-conscious.  He  glanced  at  his 
father,  then  gazed  for  a  moment  at  the  Cavaliere. 

"  Gill!  G'lii!"  muttered  the  Cavaliere  in  his  beard,  mechanic- 
ally repeating  the  phrase  he  was  perpetually  using  to  his 
pupils,  ''  Giu  seduto!  Giu  seduto!" 

Theo  did  not  hear  the  words,  but  he  felt  that  the  Cavaliere 
was  testing  him,  was  weighing  him  in  the  balance,  and  he  re- 
solved to  strain  every  nerve  to  succeed.  It  did  not  matter  to 
him  that  the  Cavaliere  knew  no  English.  The  speech  was  mar- 
tial — •  and  for  Theo  the  Cavaliere  incarnated  in  his  short,  square 
and  supple  person  all  that  there  was,  or  ever  had  been,  of  manly 
and  daring  virtues.  He  gave  out  the  speech  with  astonishing 
fire  for  a  child,  and  at  the  close  made  an  effect  such  a?  he 
had  never  made  during  the  rehearsals  with  his  mother.  Edna 
was  surprised  and  delighted.  Lady  Sarah  had  tears  in  her  eyes. 
And  both  Signor  Carpi  and  the  Cavaliere  were  evidently  im- 
pressed. All  Italians  love  an  energetic  delivery  and  abhor  what 
is  cold  and  unimpassioned.  Signor  Carpi  broke  into  a  tempest 
of  bravos,  beating  his  large  hands  energetically  together,  and 
making  approving  motions  with  his  head.  And  the  Cavaliere 
uttered  a  sonorous  "Bene!  Bene!  Benissimo,"  which  caused 
■drops  of  perspiration  to  break  out  on  Theo's  brow.  The  serv- 
ants in  the  background  clapped  and  ejaculated.  Iris  and  Viola 
were  in  transports  of  delight.  But  Denzil,  for  whom  the 
whole  thing  had  been  prepared,  made  no  demonstration.  When 
the  last  lines: 

"The  game's  a  foot: 
Follow  your  spirit;  and  upon  this  charge 
Cry  'God  for  Harry!  England!   and  Saint  George!'" 

had  been  said,  he  leaned  forward  a  little,  staring  at  his  boy 
with  an  intentness  that  would  have  astonished  Theo  had  he 
noticed  it.  He  lifted  his  hands  twice  and  dropped  them.  Then 
he  once  more  took  possession  of  Viola,  sat  back  and  gazed 
straight  before  him,  as  Theo  prepared  to  recite  "  Crossing  the 
Bar."  Neither  Dolores  nor  Sir  Theodore  had  joined  in  the 
applause.  Edna  noticed  that,  and  feared  lest  they  perhaps  hated 
recitations  by  a  child,  even  on  such  an  occasion.  Her  hus- 
band's silence  she  thought  she  understood.     It  was  caused,  she 


i82  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

believed,  by  pleasure,  and  perhaps  by  fatherly  pride,  carefully 
restrained  in  typical  British  fashion.  But  she  began  to  be  a 
little  anxious  about  the  Cannynges,  and  to  wish  she  had  omitted 
Tennyson's  poem  from  the  programme.  However,  it  was  too 
late  to  change  anything  now.     Theo  was  beginning. 

When  he  finished  Edna  was  confirmed  in  her  suspicion  that 
her  choice  had  been  a  mistake,  despite  Theo's  success  with  the 
poem  after  her  explanation  at  the  rehearsal.  The  boy,  car- 
ried away  by  the  presence  of  the  Cavaliere  —  Mars  in  a  frock- 
coat —  by  the  excitement  of  life  and  its  joys,  which  he  was  at 
that  very  moment  experiencing,  and  by  the  strong  effort  which 
he  had  just  made  to  be  patriotic,  and  even  pugnacious,  could 
not  enter  into  the  spirit  of  "  Crossing  the  Bar."  The  wine  of 
life  was  bursting  out  of  the  winepress.  To-morrow  he  would 
put  on  his  new  leggings,  would  crack  his  new  whip  as  he  be- 
strode his  pony.  To-morrow  he  would  solemnly  assume  mask 
and  gloves,  and  stand  up,  rapier  in  hand,  before  the  Cavaliere. 
Try  as  he  would  he  could  not  realize  the  need  of  the  pilot, 
the  helplessness  that  overtakes  even  the  strongest  man  in  the 
hour  of  transition  from  life  to  the  unknown.  So  he  said  the 
words  clearly,  earnestly,  but  not  what  most  people  would  have 
called  "  movingly." 

And  just  because  of  that  he  moved  Denzil  to  the  core  of  the 
soul.     The  boy  did  not  understand  death. 

"  He  won't  understand  mine!  "  thought  the  father.  *'  None 
of  my  children  will  understand.  If  I  disappear  they  must  soon 
forget  me  in  the  joys  of  life.  I  oughn't  even  to  wish  them  to 
remember,  to  be  a  little  sad  because  of  me." 

And  an  extraordinary  sensation  of  bitterness,  and  even  of 
humiliation,  went  through  him.  He  tried  to  strive  against  it, 
as  against  a  strong  tide.  But  he  felt  that  he  went  down  before 
it,  that  it  flowed  over  him,  that  for  the  moment  it  engulfed  him. 

There  was  a  stir  in  the  room.  Vi  pulled  at  her  father's 
hand.  People  spoke.  Little  Theo  was  coming  away  from  his 
red  damask  chair.  Denzil  roused  himself,  put  his  hand  on  his 
boy's  shoulder.  But  he  did  not  say  anything.  He  only  kept 
his  hand  there  for  a  long  moment,  while  Theo  looked  eagerly 
at  him. 

And  so  that  strange  ordeal,  prepared  ignorantly  by  the  human 
being  who  loved  him  best  in  the  world,  passed  as  everything 
passes. 

The  Cannynges  drove  away  from  the  festa  in  silence. 

Dolores  had  learnt  to  know  herself  in  the  last  hour,  and 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  183 

she  was  frightened.  She  faced  strange,  and  surely  dreadful 
possibilities  in  herself.  Had  her  husband  ever  suspected  them: 
when  thej^  sat  in  the  moss-room,  for  instance,  or  when  she  was 
putting  on  her  gloves  to  go  out  that  morning? 

When  the  late  afternoon  came  she  said  to  him: 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  Theo,  but  I  can't  go  to  the  Denzils  again 
to-day." 

"  But  —  not  for  the  children's  party?" 

"  I  can't,  I  simply  can't." 

There  was  a  little  break  in  her  voice.  Sir  Theodore  looked 
down. 

"  It's  pretty  hard  to  have  to  go,"  he  said.  "  For  any  one 
who  knows.     But  if  Francis  can  go  through  with  it " 

"  Francis  is " 

The  tears  came  and  prevented  her  from  continuing. 

"  You  must  go  without  me,  Theo,"  she  said.  In  a  moment. 

Then  she  left  him  quickly. 

A  solitary  evening  was  before  her.  She  did  not  expect  Sir 
Theodore  to  come  back  before  half-past  nine,  or  ten.  There 
was  to  be  a  supper  for  the  children,  and  the  few  grown-up 
people  who  would  be  there  w'ould  make  that  a  substitute  for 
dinner.  In  honor  of  little  Theo's  great  age  several  big  chil- 
dren had  been  invited.  He  had  called  them  "  squits,"  but 
that  term  was  only  intended  to  define  their  status  as  compared 
with  the  status  of  the  Cavaliere.  Vi,  no  doubt,  would  go  to 
bed  earl}^  But  the  guests  would  stay  certainly  till  nine  o'clock, 
and  probably  till  later. 

Dolores  ordered  her  dinner  to  be  brought  in  to  her  on  a  tray. 
When  she  had  finished  it  she  sat  alone  wondering  how  Francis 
Denzil  would  get  through  the  evening.  Now  that  she  had  seen 
Francis's  and  Edna's  "  interior  "  on  a  great  domestic  occasion, 
Dolores  had,  as  it  were,  returned  to  her  humanity,  had  dis- 
carded for  the  moment  her  warped  self.  Far,  very  far,  she 
had  deviated  from  her  true  womanhood  under  the  stress  of  a 
private  trouble.  So  she  believed  now,  as  she  sat  alone,  and 
recalled  how  Edna's  cheek  had  felt  under  her  kissing  lips. 

Presently  she  remembered  that  Nurse  Jennings,  the  Irish 
girl  whom  she  had  seen  for  the  first  time  that  day,  was  sleep- 
ing in  the  apartment. 

"  I  wonder  what  Nurse  Jennings  is  doing?  "  Dolores  thought. 
"  I'll  go  and  see." 

But  first  she  summoned  a  servant  and  Inquired  where  the 
nurse  was.     The  man  replied  that  the  "  signorina  "  had  finished 


i84  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

supper  and  had  gone  to  her  bedroom.  Dolores  went  to  knock 
at  the  door. 

"  Yes  ?  "  said  a  soft  voice. 

"  May  I  come  In  for  a  minute?  " 

The  door  opened. 

"  Oh,  Lady  Cannynge,  is  it  you?     Do  you  want  me?  " 

"  I'm  alone.  May  I  come  and  sit  with  you  for  a  few 
minutes?  " 

"  Oh,  do  please  come  in." 

The  nurse  was  a  tall,  rather  buxom,  and  radiantly  strong- 
looking  girl  of  perhaps  twenty-five  years  of  age,  with  Irish  blue 
eyes,  and  reddish-brown  hair.  She  had  a  beautiful  complexion 
but  was  freckled.  Her  expression  was  honest,  straight,  not  at 
ail  ignorant.  Her  manner  was  self-reliant.  Dolores  —  she 
knew  not  why  —  felt  rather  shy  as  she  looked  at  her. 

"Were  you  reading?"  she  said,  seeing  an  open  book  lying 
on  a  table  to  which  a  chair  had  been  drawn  up. 

"  Yes." 

The  nurse  closed  the  door. 

"What  is  It?     May  I  look?"  asked  Dolores. 

She  took  the  book  up.  It  was  Handy  Andy,  by  Samuel 
Lover.  She  put  it  down,  hesitated,  then  sat  on  the  chair. 
Nurse  Jennings  sat  down  composedly  opposite  to  her. 

"  I  hadn't  read  it  for  years,"  she  observed.  "  But  I  re- 
membered laughing  over  It  till  I  nearly  cried.  I  came  upon  it 
at  Miss  Wilson's  in  the  Piazza  di  Spagna." 

"  I've  never  read  it.  Do  tell  me  —  are  you  happy  in  your 
profession?  " 

"  Yes.     Why  not,  Lady  Cannynge  ?  " 

"  It  seems  to  me  such  a  terrible  vocation." 

"Terrible!  "  said  the  nurse,  getting  suddenly  red  under  her 
freckles,  and  setting  her  big  lips  together. 

"  I  mean  terrible  for  you.  Of  course  it  is  a  splendid  and 
beneficent  profession,  and  people  are  thankful  to  those  who 
enter  it.     But  for  j'ou,  personally!  " 

"Oh,  I  see!"  said  Nurse  Jennings,  relaxing.  "But  no,  I 
like  it.     Otherwise  I  wouldn't  stay  in  it." 

She  looked  steadily  at  Lady  Cannynge  with  her  firm  eyes 
full  of  knowledge  and  unashamed. 

"  You  will  marry,  I  think,  and  give  it  up  presently." 

The  nurse  reddened  slightly. 

"  Who's  to  know?  But  I  like  nursing.  But  are  you  worry- 
ing about  to-morrow?  " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  185 

Dolores  hesitated.  She  had  a  longing  to  open  her  heart  to 
this  girl,  whom  she  had  seen  that  day  for  the  first  time.  She 
was  not  going  to  do  it,  but  she  must  talk  to  her,  know  her  a 
little  better.  The  fact  that  she  was  a  nurse  seemed  just  then 
to  help  Dolores. 

"  Yes,  I  am." 

"That's  no  good,  is  it?" 

"  Don't  you  ever  worry  ?  " 

"  Very  seldom.     I'm  generally  too  busy." 

"  And  yet  I  suppose  you  see  a  great  deal  of  tragedy." 

*'  I  do  now.  I  used  to  take  maternity  cases  when  first  I 
began.  But  lately  I've  had  a  lot  of  bad  operations.  Many 
patients  recover  though.  I  set  those  oil  against  the  ones  who 
don't.     I  try  to  look  at  It  that  way." 

"I'm  afraid  I  never  could.  But  —  I  want  you  to  tell  me 
something." 

"  Certainly,  Lady  Cannynge." 

"  Do  you  believe  in  faith  healing?" 

"  Oh,  dear!  "  exclaimed  Nurse  Jennings,  with  a  sudden  access 
of  brogue,  "  You  don't  mean  that  you're  one  of  those  Christian 
Scientists?  If  you'd  been  in  the  hospitals  like  me,  you  couldn't 
do  with  them  at  all." 

"  I'm  not  one.  All  I  want  to  know  Is  this.  Do  you  think 
the  steady  belief  that  some  one  who  Is  dangerously  ill  is  going 
to  get  well  helps  them  —  him  or  her — to  get  well?" 

"  Oh,  I  daresay  It  does  no  harm.  But  I'm  one  that  believes 
In  clever  surgeons." 

"What  do  you  think  of  Doctor  Ides?" 

"  He's  a  marvel.  Did  you  hear  how  he  got  the  shawl-pin 
out  of  that  woman  at  Richmond  with  Briinlngs'  telescopic  tube 
and  the  forceps  ?  " 

She  drew  up  her  chair  and  launched  forth,  with  Irish  volu- 
bility, into  the  relation  of  a  series  of  wonderful  "  cases."  She 
was  still  relating  and  explaining  when  a  distant  clock  In  the 
apartment  struck  loudly  ten.  Dolores  got  up,  as  if  almost 
startled. 

"  It's  ten." 

"  Dear  me !     Is  it  really  ?  " 

"  My  husband  ought  to  be  back  directly." 

She  held  out  her  hand. 

"  You've  done  me  good." 

"Have  I,  Lady  Cannynge?     How?" 

"  By  telling  me  of  the  marvels  of  science,  and  by  —  I  don't 


i86  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

know.     But  if  I  am  ever  ill  I  think  I  should  like  to  have  you 
to  nurse  me." 

Nurse  Jennings  beamed. 

"  I  should  be  very  glad  to  come,  I'm  sure.  But  don't  be 
111.     And  if  you  ever  are,  don't  be  '  thought  over.'  " 

She  laughed. 

^ "  No,"  said  Dolores.     "  But  —  I  think  faith  helps.     Good- 
night, Nurse." 

Half  an  hour  afterwards,  when  she  was  still  sitting  up,  she 
heard  a  footstep.  It  must  be  Theo's.  She  was  seized  by  a 
sickening  sensation  of  nervousness  as  she  looked  towards  the 
doorway  by  which  he  would  probably  come  in.  What  would 
he  have  to  tell  her?     Did  Edna  know  now? 

"How  will  it  affect  Edna's  feelings  towards  me?" 

Swiftly  Dolores  strove  to  put  herself  imaginatively  in  the 
place  of  Edna,  to  put  Edna  in  her  place.  It  seemed  to  her 
that  she  succeeded  in  that  effort,  and  again  she  was  afraid  of 
herself. 

Sir  Theodore,  coming  in  slowly  two  or  three  minutes  after 
she  had  heard  the  footsteps,  found  her  sitting  upright,  and 
staring  towards  him. 

"Still  up!  "he  said. 

"  Yes.  I  couldn't  go  to  bed  till  you  came.  Besides  it  is 
not  very  late." 

"  No." 

She  felt  sure  that  he  wished  she  had  gone  to  bed,  perhaps 
that  she  Vv^as  asleep.  But  to-night  she  could  not  govern  herself 
by  his  desires. 

"  The  children?     Did  they  stay  very  long?  " 

*'  Till  about  nine." 

"  Only  till  then !     Then  you  stayed  on  after  they  had  gone?  " 

*'  Yes,  for  a  little.     Francis  wished  it." 

"  Theo,  sit  down  for  a  minute." 

Reluctantly,  she  thought,  he  obeyed  her. 

"  Aren't  j^ou  going  to  bed?  "  he  asked. 

"Soon.     Does  —  does  Edna  know?" 

"  Yes,"  he  answered. 

A.nd  he  sat  with  his  head  drooped  a  little  forward,  staring 
before  him.     There  was  a  long  silence. 

"  Tell  me,"  Dolores  said  at  last.  "  I  know  you  —  you  hate 
it,  Theo,  but  I  must  know.  I  think  I  have  a  —  it  is  natural, 
after  all  we  have  done  together  to  get  ready  for  to-morrow, 
that  I  should  wish  to  know." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  187 

"  Yes,  I  daresay.     What  is  it  you  wish  me  to  tell  you?  " 

"  How  —  how  did  Edna  bear  it?  " 

Sir  Theodore  turned  in  his  chair  and  lifted  his  eyes. 

"  Doloretta,  it  was  like  this." 

He  took  her  hand  and  held  it,  and  it  was  hot  within  his. 

**  How  hot  your  hand  is!  "  he  said,  surprised.  "  You  haven't 
got  fever?  " 

"  No,  no.     I  am  perfectly  well.     Tell  me." 

"  There's  very  little  to  tell.  The  party  —  I  suppose  it  went 
off  well.  The  children  enjoyed  it,  I  suppose.  I  scarcely  knew 
what  I  was  doing.  But  we  played,  danced,  pulled  crackers, 
acted  charades,  dumb-crambo.  Yes,  I  believe  they  were  quite 
happy.  They  must  have  been.  At  last  they  began  to  go.  Vi 
was  already  in  bed.  I  thought  of  going  then.  But  Francis 
stopped  me.  We  were  left  alone,  Edna,  he  and  I.  I  didn't 
know  what  he  wanted,  what  he  meant  to  do.  '  Stay  here! '  he 
said.  His  voice  was  nearly  gone.  '  Come,  Ed,  you  must  be 
tired.  Say  good-night  to  Theodore.  I'll  come  back  in  a  min- 
ute and '  his  voice  quite  went.     I  saw  Edna  look  at  him 

then  in  a  new  way.  It  was  at  that  moment  that  she  suddenly 
knew  something  was  coming  upon  her,  I  think.  But  she  only 
came  to  me  and  said,  '  good-night,'  and  w^ent  away  w-ith  him." 

Theodore  stopped  speaking  for  a  minute. 

"  I  don't  know  how  long  he  was  away  —  Francis.  It  seemed 
to  me  a  ver>'  long  time.  However,  at  last  he  came  back.  I 
didn't  look  at  him.  He  just  said,  '  It's  all  right.  She  sends 
her  love  —  blessings  for  all  you've  done,  and  this  for  Dolores.'  " 

Dolores  moved. 

"  I  meant  —  to  give  it  to  you  to-morrow  morning,"  said  Sir 
Theodore. 

He  drew  a  note  from  the  pocket  of  his  coat  and  gave  It  to 
Dolores.  She  opened  It  and  read,  In  Edna  Denzil's  large  hand- 
writing: 

"Thank  you,  dear  Dolores,  for  all  3^ou  are  doing  for 
my  Franzi.  Edna." 

Dolores  sat  still  for  a  long  time  looking  towards  the  waiting. 
But  she  only  saw  it  faintly.  There  were  tears  between  her 
and  it. 

"I  couldn't  have  done  that!"  she  was  saying  to  herself. 
"No,  I  couldn't  have  done  that!" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 


CHAPTER  XV 

Very  early  on  the  morrow  Dolores  and  Sir  Theodore  had  a 
brief,  but  anxious  consultation.  Francis  Denzil  and  Edna 
were  expected  at  the  Palazzo  Barberini  at  half-past  nine.  And 
as  the  time  for  their  arrival  drew  near  the  Cannynges  had  ab- 
ruptly realized  Edna's  position,  and  their  own  in  regard  to  her, 
now  that  she  knew  the  truth.  It  might  be  almost  intolerable 
to  her  to  feel  herself  a  guest,  to  have  to  meet  even  the  closest 
friends,  in  such  a  moment  of  emotion  and  dread. 

"  We  ought  to  have  thought  of  it  sooner,"  Dolores  said. 
We  ought  —  at  any  rate  I  ought  to  have  left  the  apartment. 
It  should  belong  to  Edna.  She  ought  to  be  mistress  here,  dur- 
ing these  days." 

"  Perhaps  it  would  have  been  better.  I  have  had  no  time  to 
think  of  that.  There  has  been  so  much,"  said  Sir  Theodore 
anxiously. 

"Shall  I  go  now?" 

"Go!     Whereto?" 

"  To  a  hotel." 

"  But  you  can't  go  alone.     And  I  hardly  like " 

He  hesitated.  He  felt  that  he  must  remain,  that  if  he  left 
the  palace,  even  from  scrupulously  delicate  motives,  it  would 
seem  like  a  desertion  of  his  friend. 

"  Theo,"  Dolores  said,  with  decision.  "  In  an  hour  like 
this  we  can  be  frank,  you  and  I.  It  is  you  who  are  the  great 
friend,  it  is  you  whom  the  Denzils  love." 

"But " 

"  No,  no.  I  came  into  their  lives  because  of  you.  That  is 
whv  I  think  It  best  for  me  to  go.  But  you  must  stay;  I  see 
that." 

"  That  will  seem  very  strange,  I  think.  Edna  may  not  un- 
derstand." 

"  Such  a  thing  won't  trouble  her  in  such  a  moment.  Let 
me  go." 

She  got  up,  as  if  with  the  intention  of  making  immediate 
preparations  for  departure. 

"It  will  be  much  more  delicate,"  she  said.  "And  Edna 
has  always  treated  me  perfectly." 

She  thought  of  that  note  which  she  had  not  destroyed.  "  I 
shall  leave  a  letter  for  her,  of  course." 

She  was  about  to  go  away,  but  her  husband  stopped  her. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  189 

"  I  don't  like  this  idea,"  he  said. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  don't  like  your  going  away  while  I  remain  here." 

"But " 

"  No,  Doloretta.  That  really  can't  be.  You  have  —  it  is 
you  who  have  supervised,  arranged " 

"What  has  that  to  do  with  it?"  she  interrupted. 

"  A  great  deal,  everything  almost.  You  have  been  wonder- 
ful.    I  didn't  know " 

"  Please  don't  bother  about  all  that,  Theo,"  she  said,  rather 
coldly.  "  Any  woman  naturally  superintends  things  in  her 
own  home." 

"  Stay  in  your  home.  I  feel  I  must  stay.  If  I  went  it 
would  seem  almost  like  a  desertion  of  Francis." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  think  now." 

"  And  j'ou  must  stay  too.  You  need  not  see  Edna.  You 
can  remain  in  your  own  room.  And  if  Edna  feels  equal  to 
seeing  j'ou,  asks  for  you,  then  you  will  be  here.  I  feel  pretty 
sure  she  will  wish  to  see  j-ou.  She  has  such  a  warm  heart,  such 
a  great  sense  of  gratitude.  I  know  she  will  never  forget  how 
readv  vou  were " 

"  Oh,  please  don't,  Theo !  " 

He  was  silent. 

"  Very  well.  I  suppose  I  had  better  stay.  But  it  must  be 
as  if  I  were  not  here,  please,  unless  Edna  strongly  insists  on 
seeing  me." 

"  I  believe  she  will." 

"  Theo,  women  understand  each  other  much  better  than  men 
ever  understand  them.  I  don't  think  Edna  can  really  wish  to 
see  me  at  such  a  time.  Therefore  please  try  to  manage  so  tliat 
I  am  not  seen.  Then  I  shall  not  mind  so  much  having  staj^ed 
on  here." 

She  went  out  of  the  room. 

Sir  Theodore  wondered  at  the  mixture  of  deep  emotion,  of 
practical  energy,  of  feverish  anxiety,  and  of  almost  petulant 
irritability  which  she  had  shown  during  the  last  difficult  days 
and  just  now.  But  he  had  little  time  to  dwell  on  the  mental 
condition  of  his  wife.  The  thing  was  settled.  They  were  to 
remain  in  the  apartment,  both  of  them.  There  was  an  end  of 
that.  Francis  —  from  this  moment  till  the  operation  was  over, 
he  must  think  only  of  Francis! 

Dolores  went  to  speak  to  her  friend,  Nurse  Jennings.  The 
nurse  greeted  her  with  a  cheerful,  confident  smile. 


I90  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Do  you  wish  to  see  the  room  ?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  not  now.  You  have  found  the  servants  ready  and 
willing;  to  do  everj'thing  necessary,  to  get  anything  that  is 
wanted  immediately?" 

"  Oh  yes,  indeed.     I  know  how  to  manage  with  anj'body." 

"  Then  I  will  go.  I  am  going  to  shut  myself  up  in  my  room 
so  as  to  be  quite  out  of  the  way  till  —  till  it  is  over." 

Nurse  Jennings  smiled  again. 

"  Now  don't  worry,  Lady  Cannynge,"  she  said. 

*'  I  am  not  going  to." 

To  herself  Dolores  was  still  repeating,  "  He  is  going  to  re- 
cover.    He  is  going  to  recover." 

She  went  away  to  her  bedroom,  shut  herself  in,  and  took  up 
a  book.  It  was  La  Guerre  et  la  Pa'ix  of  Tolstoy.  Sir 
Theodore  must  have  laid  it  down  in  the  bedroom  with  its  com- 
panion volume  in  Russian.  He  was  going  on  with  his  study  of 
Russian.  "  To  what  end  ?  "  often  he  asked  himself  that.  But 
he  continued  to  study,  as  he  continued  to  fill  up  his  empty  hours 
with  other  occupations,  for  which  he  felt  little  enthusiasm. 

Dolores,  opening  the  volume  near  the  end,  began  to  read 
deliberately,  carefully.  She  had  chanced  upon  the  passage  in 
which  the  author  describes  the  change  that  came  upon  Natasha 
when  Pierre  had  made  her  the  mother  of  a  family.  Dolores 
had  read  the  book,  and  well  remembered  the  exquisite  charm 
and  attraction  of  Natasha  as  an  unmarried  girl.  Now,  as  she 
forced  herself  to  read  it  again,  she  thought  "  And  that  is  what 
motherhood  does  to  some  women!  That  is  what  it  might  do 
to  me!  "  It  seemed  to  her  that  Natasha,  the  mother,  was  al- 
most ugly,  almost  repellant,  compared  with  Natasha  the  girl, 
who  sang,  danced,  loved,  and  always  with  grace,  almost  always 
with  a  sort  of  mystery,  the  mystery  of  the  elusive,  and  yet  ve- 
hem.ent  girlhood.  Did  motherhood  mean  a  sinking  down  into 
a  sort  of  slough  of  materialism?  There  was  something  almost 
indecent  in  Natasha,  the  mother. 

''  Should  I  become  like  that,  if ?"  thought  Dolores. 

She  sat  with  one  hand  on  the  page  and  mused. 

"  And  would  Theo  love  nie  more  —  like  that?  " 

She  heard  a  door  shut  in  the  distance. 

"But  Edna  —  she  is  not  like  that.     Is  she?" 

And  she  began  to  compare  herself  with  Edna  Denzil,  care- 
fully, almost  coldly.  Was  Edna  more,  or  less,  charming,  as 
the  mother  of  a  family  than  she  had  been  before  the  children 
came?     Certainly  she  still  had  charm.     Dolores  knew  that,  and 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  191 

was  strictly  fair  in  acknowledging  it.  But  did  that  charm  pro- 
ceed from  her  motherhood,  or  did  it  persist  in  spite  of  that? 
Girl,  wife,  mother  —  Edna  was  always  charming.  And  —  as 
widow? 

"  How  hateful  I  am,  how  hateful,  and  how  false  to  my  own 
determination!     Francis  will  recover,  he  will  recover!" 

There  was  a  knock  on  the  door.     Dolores  started  up. 

Sir  Theodore  opened  the  door.  He  looked  as  if  under  the 
brown  of  his  complexion  he  had  become  dreadfully  pale. 

"  They  have  come,  Dolores." 

"They?" 

**  Francis  and  Edna." 

"Yes?" 

His  quick  eyes  saw  the  book. 

"  You  are  reading!  "  he  said. 

"  I  was  trying  to.  It  is  better  than  sitting  and  thinking  of 
dreadful  things." 

"  I  see  —  yes.     But  —  they  both  wish  to  see  you  at  once." 

"Oh,  but " 

"  You  cannot  refuse.       They  both  wish  It  —  Edna  too." 

"  Of  course  I  will  come." 

Filled  with  a  sort  of  heavy  dread,  almost  like  that  of  a  child, 
Dolores  followed  her  husband. 

Edna  Denzil  and  Francis  were  alone  In  a  room  next  to  that 
In  which  the  operation  was  to  take  place.  They  were  sitting 
side  by  side  on  a  sofa  when  the  Cannynges  came  in.  Directly 
Dolores  saw  them  she  felt  as  if  some  horrible  core,  hard,  abom- 
inable, even  diseased  perhaps,  in  her  heart  melted.  And  this 
happened  even  before  she  had  looked  into  their  faces.  The  sight 
of  their  two  bodies,  leaning  a  little  towards  each  other,  bend- 
ing a  little,  was  enough.  Poor  bodies,  that  love  so  much,  joined 
in  the  mystery  of  the  flesh!  But  when  she  looked  into  Edna's 
face,  then  she  suffered  indeed,  and  was  moved  in  the  very 
depths  of  that  womanhood  which  acknowledges  itself  part  of  a 
great  company  of  sisters.     For  Edna  Denzil  was  changed. 

Never  a  pretty  woman,  but  nearly  alwa3's  a  radiant  woman, 
the  shock  she  had  endured  had  withered  the  charm  that  was 
made,  perhaps,  out  of  sunbeams.  Her  irregular  features,  no 
longer  lighted  up,  seemed  to  thrust  forward  into  notice  their 
plainness.  The  defect  in  her  eye  was  become  a  blemish  now 
that  the  sweet  light  of  joy  had  gone  out  of  her  eyes.  To  the 
casual  observer  she  would  have  looked  a  meager,  plain,  and 
even   perhaps  unattractive  woman   at   that  moment.     Dolores 


192  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

saw  it,  realized  it  all.  But  at  that  moment  she  felt  as  if  she 
was  in  Edna's  heart,  and  almost  as  if  that  heart  were  her  own. 
And  she  went  to  Edna,  put  both  arms  about  her,  and  kissed  her. 
And  as  she  did  so  she  heard  Edna's  voice  whispering  against 
her  shoulder,  "  Thank  you  —  for  everything."  She  held  the 
hand  of  Francis  in  hers  for  a  moment.  Perhaps  he  said  some- 
thing. She  did  not  know.  But  she  heard  herself  saying  to 
him: 

"  I  shall  pray  for  you,  Francis.     I  shall  pray  for  you." 

Voices  were  audible  in  the  next  room.     A  door  opened. 

"Edna,  what  do  you  wish  to  do  while  —  while  it  is  going 
on?"  Dolores  said  quickly. 

"  I  will  sit  here  v.'ithin  reach." 

"  Shall  I ?     No,  you  won't  want  me." 

"  Thank  j^ou,  Dolores." 

Dolores  kissed  her  again,  clasped  the  arm  of  Francis,  and 
went  away. 

She  returned  to  her  bedroom,  shut  and  locked  the  door,  knelt 
down  and  began  to  pray. 

"  Not  for  my  sake,  but  for  Edna's  sake!  " 

She  repeated  these  words  in  her  prayer  again  and  again,  with 
a  perseverance  that  became  at  last  almost  monotonous. 

"  For  Edna  and  the  children !  For  Edna  and  the  chil- 
dren!" 

Bright  circles  formed  before  her  shut  eyes  against  which 
her  hands  were  pressed.  She  knelt  thus  for  a  long  time.  But 
presently  she  ceased  from  prayer.  It  seemed  to  her  that  a  de- 
cision had  been  come  to  —  far  off,  that  it  was  irrevocable,  and 
that  therefore  it  was  useless  for  her  to  pray  any  longer.  She 
did  not  know  what  this  decision  was.  It  might  be  in  conform- 
ance with  her  intense,  her  alm.ost  desperate  desire,  or  not.  In 
either  case  further  supplication  could  avail  nothing.  After- 
wards she  often  wondered  why  such  a  strange  idea  had  come  to 
her,  and,  still  more,  why  she  had  entertained  it  so  unhesitat- 
ingly, with  such  absolute  confidence.  She  felt  that  she  simply 
knew.  Yet  she  did  not  rise  from  her  knees.  She  had  no  de- 
sire to  move,  and  so  she  remained  as  she  was. 

When  at  length  she  did  move  her  eyes  ached  from  contact 
with  her  pressing  hands.  How  long  had  she  been  kneeling? 
She  looked  at  her  watch. 

It  was  eleven.  Flad  the  doctors  begun  their  dreadful  task 
punctually?  She  wondered.  And  she  wondered  what  Theo 
was  doing,  where  he  was.     Probably  he  was  sitting  with  Edna 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  193 

in  that  room  close  to  where  Francis  was  being  saved,  or  not 
saved. 

Again  Dolores  took  up  La  Guerre  et  la  Paix.  She  read 
it  steadily  for  twenty  minutes,  without  emotion.  It  meant 
scarcely  anything  to  her.  Nevertheless  she  did  not  miss  a  word, 
and  she  knew  what  she  was  reading  about.  Her  head  was 
quite  clear,  her  nerves  were  surely  quite  steady.  The  feeling 
that  a  certain  matter  was  decided  brought  a  sort  of  solace  to 
her. 

But  where  was  Theo?  What  was  he  doing  all  this  time? 
Presently  this  question  recurred  to  her  mind,  persisted  in  it,  and 
began  to  make  her  feel  restless.  She  laid  her  book  down,  and 
sat  for  some  time  doing  nothing.  There  was  not  a  sound  to 
be  heard  in  the  apartment.  She  got  up,  went  to  the  door,  and 
softly  unlocked  it.  There  was  no  reason  now  why  it  should  be 
locked.  She  did  not  open  the  door,  but  returned  to  her  chair, 
sat  down  and  waited. 

While  she  was  on  her  knees  the  time  had  passed  like  a  flash. 
Now  it  dragged.  Why  did  not  some  one  come?  Surely  the 
operation  must  be  over.  Perhaps  every  one  had  forgotten  about 
her.  Perhaps  no  one  would  think  of  coming  to  tell  her  the  re- 
sult. But  Theo  —  surely  he  would  come.  He  knew  where 
she  was. 

He  did  not  come.  No  one  came.  And  at  last  Dolores  got 
up  and  went  to  the  door.  She  partially  opened  it,  held  it,  and 
listened.  Then  she  opened  it  wide,  went  out,  and,  walking 
gently,  made  her  way  to  the  room  where  she  had  left  Edna. 
The  door  of  this  room  was  shut.  She  waited  outside  of  it  for 
a  minute.  Noav  that  she  was  so  near  the  chamber  in  which  the 
fate  of  Francis  was  being  decided,  she  felt  more  strongly  than 
ever  before  the  mystery  and  the  terror  that  had  taken  posses- 
sion so  abruptly  of  her  home,  and  of  those  who  were  in  it. 

At  last  she  made  up  her  mind  not  to  hesitate  any  longer. 
And  she  opened  the  door  and  looked  into  the  room.  She  saw 
Edna  Denzil  and  her  husband  in  it.  They  were  sitting  still, 
unnaturally  still  as  it  seemed  to  Dolores.  Edna  was  facing 
her  in  a  chair  close  to  the  door  which  communicated  with  the 
room  in  which  Denzil,  the  doctors  and  the  nurse  were.  Sir 
Theodore  had  his  back  turned  towards  her.  Neither  of  them 
was  doing  anything.  And  though  Edna  v.-as  exactly  opposite 
to  Dolores,  as  the  latter  looked  in  at  the  door,  she  saw  nothing. 
For  her  eyes  were  shut.  Dolores  knew,  as  she  gazed  at  her  for 
a  brief  instant,  that  Edna  needed  darkness  just  then  because  the 


194  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

cloud  was  upon  her  Franzi.  She  was  waiting  till  he  opened 
his  eyes  again  on  the  world.  How  strange,  how  altered,  how 
almost  dead  she  looked  in  her  sightless  immobility!  And  how 
strangely  motionless  Theo  was!  Dolores  had  not  known  that 
a  live  and  conscious  human  being  could  remain  so  absolutely 
without  movement. 

She  drew  the  door  towards  her,  did  not  quite  shut  it,  and 
went  back  to  her  bedroom.  Not  very  long  afterwards  Sir 
Theodore  tapped  and  entered.  Dolores  looked  at  him  without 
speaking. 

"  It  is  all  over,"  he  said. 

Dolores  got  up. 

"  All  over!  "  she  said,  coming  slowly  towards  him. 

"  The  operation  I  mean." 

He  sent  her  a  strange,  it  seemed  to  her  almost  a  terrible, 
look,  as  if  he  suspected  her  of  something. 

"Yes." 

"  He  has  recovered  consciousness.  Edna  Is  in  the  room  with 
him." 

"  Yes,"  repeated  Dolores. 

Sir  Theodore  began  to  walk  about  the  large  room. 

"  I  have  been  sitting  with  Edna  all  the  time,"  he  said.  "  I 
felt  that  I  could  not  leave  her  alone.  Do  you  think  I  was 
right?" 

"  Quite  right." 

"  I  believe,  I  hope,  it  was  some  comfort  to  her.  She  must 
have  known  I  was  sharing  her  frightful  anxiety." 

He  was  opposite  to  the  large  dressing-table  which  was  cov- 
ered with  boxes  and  bottles  of  cut  glass.  He  stood  still,  picked 
up  a  bottle,  looked  at  it,  put  it  down. 

"  You  were  here?  "  he  asked. 

He  did  not  wait  for  a  reply,  but  took  up  another  bottle  and 
pulled  out  the  stopper. 

"  There  is  nothing  so  hideous  as  waiting,"  he  continued. 
*'  Nothing.  Anything  is  better  than  suspense."  He  put  the 
stopper  back.  "  But  of  course  we  can't  know  yet."  He  with- 
drew the  stopper.  "  He  has  regained  consciousness,  and  the 
operation  has  been  successful  in  that  the  —  the  trouble  has  been 
taken  away.  But  of  course "  He  took  out  his  handker- 
chief and  poured  some  eau-de-Cologne  on  it. 

Dolores  was  sure  that  he  did  not  know  what  he  was  doing. 
He  put  the  handkerchief  into  his  pocket,  put  the  stopper  into 
the  bottle,  set  the  bottle  down,  and  piclied  up  a  powder-box. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  195 

"Ides  will  be  able  to  tell  us  something  directly  —  perhaps. 

I  don't  think "     He  removed  the  lid  of  the  powder-box. 

"What  made  you  say  'all  over!'  like  that,  Doloretta,  just 
now?     Did  you  think  —  did  you  suppose  that ?" 

"  I  only  wanted  to  know  exactly  what  j^ou  meant." 

He  put  the  lid  back,  and  turned  round  to  her. 

*'  Have  you  done  what  you  intended  doing  all  this  time?" 

**  Do  you  mean ?  " 

*'  You  remember  what  you  said  about  faith  healing." 

"  Last  night  I  did  it." 

"  Let  us  go  on  —  let  us  go  on.  I  am  sure  that  Francis  will 
recover." 

"  I  have  been  praying  that  he  may." 

"  Praying,  but " 

He  was  about  to  say  that  to  pray  that  something  may  happen 
shows  a  doubt  as  to  whether  it  is  going  to  happen.  But  he  did 
not  finish  his  sentence. 

"  I  wonder  whether  prayer  is  of  any  good  except  to  those 
who  pray,"  he  said.  "  Do  you  really  suppose  —  you,  Dolo- 
retta —  that  a  petition  to  God  from  you,  or  let  us  say  from 
me,  could  possibly  lead  to  any  change  in  the  fate  of  Francis? 
If  he  were  destined  to  die,  do  you  believe  we,  by  our  prayers, 
could  cause  that  decision,  if  it  is  a  decision,  to  be  changed?" 

"  Not  now,"  she  answered. 

Sir  Theodore  came  away  from  the  dressing-table. 

"  Not  now!  What  do  you  mean  by  that?"  he  asked,  look- 
ing down  into  her  eyes. 

"  While  I  was  praying  —  after  some  time  —  there  came  to 
me  the  conviction,  it  seemed  like  knowledge,  that  the  matter  of 
Francis's  living,  or  dying,  had  been  decided  Irrevocably." 

**  That  was  only  a  fancy,  of  course." 

"  Perhaps.     But  I  could  not  pray  any  more." 

"And  that  other  thing?  The  exertion  of  the  mind,  of  the 
will?" 

"  Theo,  I've  done  all  I  can.  And  I  feel  that  to  try  to  do 
anything  more  would  be  utterly  useless." 

He  said  nothing  for  a  minute.  Her  words,  or  perhaps  some- 
thing in  her  manner,  had  evidently  made  upon  him  a  painful 
impression,  against  which,  she  thought,  he  was  trying  to  strug- 
gle.    At  last  he  said: 

"  All  these  things  are  out  of  our  hands.  Very  little  — " 
his  voice  became  suddenly  bitter — "is  in  our  hands.  We  are 
pigmies  filled  with  the  desire  to  be  giants,  or  even  gods." 


196  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"Ah!" 

"  But  have  you  any  feeling  as  to  what  may  be  going  to  hap- 
pen, one  way  or  the  other?" 

Dolores  remembered  the  hour  when  she  had  lain  upon  her 
bed  and  wept.  Then  she  had  felt  almost  as  if  she  knew  what 
would  follow  the  operation.  Afterwards  she  had  combated 
that  feeling,  and  had  surely  slain  it.  She  had  willed  that  it 
should  be  proved  absurd.     And  now? 

*'  No,"  she  answered.  "  I  feel  quite  in  the  dark.  We  can 
only  wait." 

"  And  hope  for  the  best." 

She  said  nothing.  Her  mind  w^as  incapable  Just  then  either 
of  hope  or  of  active  fear.  Sir  Theodore  put  his  hands  into 
the  pockets  of  his  dark  blue  serge  jacket.  He  had  suddenly 
become  aware  of  his  own  restlessness. 

"  And  hope  for  the  best !  "  he  repeated  earnestly. 

*'  Have  you  seen  Dr.  Ides?" 

"  Only  for  an  instant." 

"I  suppose  I  couldn't  see  Nurse  Jennings?" 

"I  don't  know.     Presently!" 

"  I  like  that  Irish  girl." 

"How  freckled  she  is!" 

"  Is  she?  "  Dolores  said. 

"  I  don't  mean  to  say  she's  bad  looking." 

"  It's  a  face  I  should  be  very  glad  to  have  by  me  if  I  were 
very  ill." 

"  She's  an  excellent  nurse,  I  believe.  I'll  go  now  and  learn 
how  things  are." 

He  went  to  the  door. 

"What  are  you  going  to  do,  Doloretta?"  he  said  as  he  was 
about  to  go  away.  "  Wouldn't  it  be  best  if  you  went  out  and 
got  some  air?     You  look  very  pale." 

"When  am  I  anything  else?" 

"There  are  different  kinds  of  paleness.  But  just  as  you 
like.  I  daresay  you  feel  you  would  rather  be  on  the  spot,  as 
I  do." 

He  withdrew  his  hands  from  his  jacket  pockets,  plunged 
them  In  again,  and  went  out. 


The  news  of  the  dangerous  illness  of  the  Councillor  of  the 
British  Embassy  spread  rapidly  through  Roman  society,  and 
caused  great  astonishment. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  197 

"  But  I  saw  him  out  only  the  day  before  yesterday,  looking 
as  well  as  ever  he  did  in  his  life!  " 

"  Most  extraordinary  thing  to  keep  it  so  quiet !  " 

"But  there  was  a  party  at  the  Denzils  only  yesterday!  I 
know  it,  because  my  children  were  there." 

"  Even  his  own  ambassador  knew  nothing  till  a  few  hours 
before  the  operation." 

"  He  always  smoked  too  much,  poor  chap!" 

Such  remarks  were  made  in  the  English  and  American  sets. 
In  Italian  circles  a  great  deal  of  attention  was  devoted  to  the 
fact  that  the  operation  upon  Denzil  had  taken  place  in  the  Pa- 
lazzo Barberini.  This  was  generally  condemned,  and  univer- 
sally thought  to  be  an  extraordinary  circumstance.  Princess 
Mancelli  did  not  say  anything  against  it,  but  she  could  not 
understand  the  matter.  If  Sir  Theodore  was  the  lover  of  Mrs. 
Denzil,  as  she  and  many  other  Italian  ladies  had  come  to  be- 
lieve, why  should  he  carry  hypocrisy  to  such  unnecessary 
lengths?  And  why  should  Mrs.  Denzil,  whom  one  did  not 
wish  to  condemn  too  uncharitably  for  liking  such  a  handsome 
and  attractive  man  as  Sir  Theodore  —  why  should  she  take 
her  husband  to  be  operated  upon  in  the  house  of  her  lover? 
And  then  Lady  Cannynge's  attitude!  That,  too,  was  extraor- 
dinary. Why  should  she  turn  her  beautiful  apartment  into  a 
hospital  to  suit  the  convenience  of  people  whom  she  must  surely 
dislike,  if  not  hate,  in  her  heart? 

The  Princess  spoke  of  the  matter  with  Montebruno,  who 
had  recently  returned  to  Rome  from  the  French  Riviera. 

*'  I  shall  never  learn  to  understand  the  English,"  she  said  to 
him.  "  Although  I  have  English  blood  in  my  own  veins.  Of 
course  they  are  called  '  the  mad  English.'  But  that  is  merely 
a  saying.  They  are  different,  so  they  are  mad.  That  does 
for  the  man  who  sells  hot  chestnuts,  or  the  Vv-oman  who  eats 
pasta  sciutta  under  Queen  Margherita's  portrait  in  the  den  of 
the  concierge.  But  of  course  it  is  not  for  us.  Do  you  think 
Lady  Cannynge  knows?" 

"  Cara  Lisetta  —  what?"  said  ]\Iontebruno  in  his  harsh  and 
weary  voice,  which  had  no  resonance,  no  softness. 

"About  her  husband  and  ]VIrs.  Denzil?" 

"  Women  always  know  such  things,  men  scarcely  ever  know 
them." 

"  Yet  she  receives  Mrs.  Denzil  at  such  a  moment.  He  may 
die  in  her  apartment,  and  leave  Mrs.  Denzil  and  Sir  Theo- 
dore free  to  do  whatever  thev  like." 


198  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Free!  Lady  Cannynge  will  still  exist  even  if  Mr.  Denzil 
should  die." 

"  I  do  not  think  Dolores  Cannynge  is  the  sort  of  woman 
who  would  fight  in  a  case  like  that.  She  would  probably  not 
count.     Her  strength  would  never  lie  in  fighting." 

*'  Where  would  it  lie,  mia  cara?  " 

"  In  being  conquered,  I  think." 

"Ah!"  said  Montebruno. 

He  looked  at  the  Princess  steadily  for  more  than  a  minute. 
Then  he  said: 

"  I  am  getting  old  and  dull  witted " 

"  Don't  be  ridiculous,  Giorgio !  " 

"  No,  but  tell  me  exactly  what  you  mean  by  this  enigma." 

"  I  mean  that  if  Dolores  Cannynge  were  ever  conquered, 
her  conqueror  would  probably  become  her  slave." 

When  Montebruno  spoke  again,  which  he  was  in  no  hurry 
to  do,  he  said: 

"  Shall  I  go  this  evening  and  inquire  how  Mr.  Denzil  Is?  " 

"  Yes,  do.  I  should  like  to  know.  Poor  fellow !  And 
Just  as  he  had  got  what  he  wanted,  Munich." 

"  That  is  how  things  are  in  this  world.  And  there  is  no 
other  for  us.     Even  the  Americans  have  found  out  that." 

"The  Americans!" 

**  Their  great  Edison  has  said  it." 

"  Then  that  is  settled ! "  observed  the  Princess,  with  a  smile 
not  devoid  of  contempt. 

"  It  is  not  only  from  the  United  States  that  I  get  It,"  said 
Montebruno. 

"From  where,  then?" 

He  touched  his  bald  and  yellow  forehead  with  his  long- 
nailed  forefinger. 

"  From  here." 

The  Princess  put  her  hand  lightly  on  her  heart. 

"And  from  here  —  do  you  get  nothing?" 

He  went  out,  slowly  shaking  his  head. 

Late  in  the  evening  he  drove  up  in  a  hired  fiacre  to  the 
Palazzo  Barberini,  left  his  card,  and  inquired  how  Mr.  Denzil 
was. 

The  Cannynges'  maestro  dl  casa,  a  middle-aged  Roman, 
with  a  dignified,  almost  intellectual  face,  and  grave,  expressive 
eyes,  lifted  his  hands. 

"  The  poor  signore  is  very  ill !  very,  very  ill !  " 

Montebruno,  in  suitable  terms,  expressed  a  dry  regret.     No 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  199 

doubt  the  shock  of  the  operation  had  greatly  tried  the  strength 
of  the  patient. 

"  Si,  Signer  Marchese.  It  is  his  heart,  I  think.  But  how 
should  I  know?  " 

Again  he  lifted  his  hands,  and  raised  his  large  and  promi- 
nent eyes. 

"  What  a  pity!  what  a  pity!  Let  us  hope  all  will  go  well!  " 
observed  Montebruno. 

"  And  why  should  we  not  hope  ? "  responded  the  maestro 
d'l  casa. 

He  stood  respectfully  at  the  door  while  Montebruno  turned 
and  descended  the  wide  staircase. 

"  And  why  should  we  not  hope?  "  he  repeated  to  himself,  as 
at  length  he  closed  the  door  softly. 

Early  the  next  morning,  despite  every  effort  of  the  doctors 
to  combat  the  shock  to  the  system  caused  by  the  operation, 
Francis  Denzil  succumbed  to  heart  failure. 

In  the  evening  of  the  same  day,  in  the  first  edition  of  La 
Tribuna,  his  death  was  announced,  and  a  short  account  was 
given  of  his  career  in  diplomacy,  followed  by  the  graceful  ex- 
pressions of  regret  at  his  loss,  and  sympathy  for  his  wife  and 
young  children,  which  Italian  journalists  know  so  well  how 
to  turn. 

Among  the  many  who  read  this  notice  was  Cesare  Carelli. 
He  took  in  La  Tribuna,  and  always  glanced  through  it  before 
he  went  to  bed.  On  this  occasion,  however,  he  had  bought  a 
copy  in  the  entrance  hall  of  the  Salone  Margherita,  whither 
he  had  gone  with  three  friends,  young  men  fond  of  sport,  and 
with  eyes  ever  warily  on  the  look  out  for  new  pretty  women 
on  the  variety  stage.  They  occupied  the  box  on  the  left  of  the 
scene,  and  as  soon  as  they  were  in  it  Cesare  opened  his  paper 
widely,  and  began  to  read,  without  casting  even  a  glance  at  the 
performer  of  the  moment.  He  read  on  steadily,  sitting  well  in 
the  front  of  the  box,  close  to  the  crowd  in  the  Poltrone,  to 
whom  he  paid  no  attention,  and  of  whom  he  did  not  once  think. 
His  companions  calmly  stared  at  the  wriggling  and  half-plead- 
ing, half-defiant  young  woman  on  the  stage,  who  swung  her 
short,  puffed-out  skirts,  walked  to  and  fro,  showed  her  rows  of 
excellent  teeth  between  heavily  painted  lips,  and  occasionally  — 
with  a  mechanical  gesture  —  touched  one  of  her  darkened  eye- 
brows, as  she  rather  spoke  than  sang  a  popular  street  song. 
When,  as  happened  almost  immediately,  the  young  men  had 
made  up  their  minds  that  as  a  body  —  they  did  not  think  of 


200  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

her  as  a  singer  —  she  was  unworthy  of  their  attention,  they 
turned  away  and  took  long  and  deliberate  stock  of  the  audi- 
ence. To  Cesare  they  paid  no  attention.  When  he  had  fin- 
ished what  he  was  doing,  he  would  throw  away  his  paper, 
and  exist. 

Presently  the  girl,  with  a  last  swing  of  her  skirts,  and  a 
peculiar  waggle,  almost  circular,  of  her  right  leg,  disappeared, 
without  a  sound  of  appreciation  from  even  one  spectator.  The 
curtains  drew  together,  opened  again,  and  amid  clapping  Anita 
di  Landa  walked  on,  looking  steadily,  almost  threateningly,  at 
the  hundreds  of  faces  before  her,  and  up  at  the  circle  where 
the  smoke  wreaths  mounted  and  dispersed.  She  sang  song 
after  song,  and  every  song  was  greeted  with  cries  of  "Bis! 
Bis!  "  and  still  Cesare  read  calmly  on,  sitting  well  forward  in 
his  chair.  At  length  the  singer  indicated  by  gestures  that  she 
did  not  want  to  sing  any  more.  She  put  out  her  pretty  hand, 
and,  smiling,  but  looking  determined,  pretended  to  push  the 
shouting  men  away  from  her  with  its  delicate,  pink-flushed 
palm.  She  shook  her  head  and  drew  down  her  eyebrows,  mak- 
ing a  face  expressive  of  fatigue. 

"  Zampugnaro !  Zampugnaro !  Zampugnaro !  "  shouted 
the  young  men,  and  not  a  few  of  the  old  ones  too. 

Cesare  glanced  up  for  the  first  time. 

"  Zampugnaro!  "  he  too  cried,  in  a  loud,  firm  voice. 

Anita  di  Landa  sent  him  a  side  glance,  which  was  like  a 
glance  of  rebuke,  shrugged  her  shoulders,  and  made  a  signal  to 
the  conductor.  The  applause  ceased,  and  the  orchestra  played 
the  opening  bars  of  the  song  every  one  wanted. 

Cesare,  satisfied  now  that  his  loud  and  decisive  cry  had  been 
obeyed,  returned  to  his  newspaper,  and  his  eyes  fell  on  the 
word,  Lutto.  And  as  Anita  di  Landa  sang  the  delicious 
country  song,  with  its  suggestion  of  reeds,  and  its  imitation  of 
the  pipes  of  Arcady,  Cesare  read  the  announcement  of  the 
death  of  Francis  Denzil  in  the  apartment  of  the  Cannynges. 
He  had  a  real  love  of  the  odd  aod  characteristic  little  song, 
which  only  Anita  di  Landa  can  sing  as  it  should  be  sung. 
There  was  caught  in  it  something  of  the  open  air,  of  Italian 
country  scenes,  olive-covered  slopes,  vines  ripening  on  hills 
stretching  down  from  gray  hill  towns,  with  rough  walls  and 
Campanili,  to  long  plains  covered  with  waving  corn,  dotted 
with  mulberry  trees,  and  threaded  by  white  roads  deep  in  dust, 
along  which  the  wagons  drawn  by  the  leaning  oxen  pass,  while 
the  drivers  lie  and  sleep,  with  flowers,  or  bits  of  green,  behind 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  201 

their  ears.  And  there  was  caught  in  it,  too,  a  sound  of  rustic 
love;  love  in  the  open  air;  far  from  cities,  far  from  social  tram- 
mels, far  from  the  prying  eyes  of  those  who  chatter  in  draw- 
ing-rooms, of  love  under  silver  green  olives,  of  love  by  streams 
in  the  grasses. 

"  Nu  Zampugnaro  'e  nu  paese  'e  fora 
Lassaie   quase   n'   figlianza   la   mugliera, 
Se  partette  pe  Napule  'e  bon  'ora 
Sunanno  allero   allero:  ullero,  ullero! 

'ma   nun   era  overo 

'o  Zampugnaro 

pensava  'a  mugliera, 

e  suspirava, 
e  a  zampogna  'e  suspiru   s'abbuflFava  *." 

Cesare  read,  and  heard  Anita  di  Landa's  voice  singing  while 
he  read.  And  forever  after^vards  the  song  of  the  Zampu- 
gnaro was  connected  in  his  mind  with  the  freedom  of  Mrs. 
Denzil  —  he  thought  of  her  husband's  death  as  her  freedom  — ■ 
and  with  the  movement  of  his  own  strong  life  onward  in  a 
direction  which  might  lead  him  to  his  greatest  desire. 

"E   ullero,   ullero! 
Che  bella   faccella, 
Che  bella  resella 

Faceva  Gesu! 
Quanno  'a   Madonna 
Cantava:  core  mio,  fa   nonna  nonna*!" 

He  put  down  his  paper  at  last,  leaned  forward  on  the  ledge 
of  the  box,  and  looked  at  Anita  di  Landa.  But  he  saw  a 
little  osteria  in  the  mountains,  with  vines  leaning  above  its 
door.  And  he  heard  larks  singing  in  the  midst  of  a  great  soli- 
tude. 


CHAPTER  XVI 

At  the  beginning  of  March,  about  a  month  after  the  death  of 
Francis  Denzil,  there  was  a  great  skating  party  in  the  palace 
of  the  Duchess  Miravanti,  not  far  from  the  Corso.  The 
Duchess  was  a  widow,  rich,  cheery,  kind-hearted,  by  no  means 
old.     She  had  two  sons,  of  eighteen  and  twenty,  and  a  pretty 

*  For   translations   of   foreign   -words    and   phrases   see   page    523. 


202  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

daughter,  recently  married  to  Count  Emilio  Boccara,  a  younger 
brother  of  Count  Boccara;  and  partly  for  them,  partly  per- 
haps for  herself,  though  she  did  not  say  so,  she  entertained 
perpetually.  During  the  season  before  Lent  she  had  given 
two  balls,  and  several  small  dances.  Now  that  Lent  had  be- 
gun, and  society  made  a  pretense  of  not  dancing,  though  it 
still  danced  whenever  and  wherever  it  could,  the  Duchess  gave 
lunches,  concerts  and  dinners.  And  she  it  was  who  had  made 
roller-skating  once  more  not  merely  the  vogue,  but  the  passion 
in  Rome.  In  her  magnificent  palace  there  was  a  long  picture 
gallery,  with  a  ceiling  painted  by  Tiepolo  and  a  marble  floor. 
One  day  the  Duchess,  in  a  moment  of  inspiration,  glanced 
down  at  this  floor.  Her  handsome  eyes  became  fixed  and 
dreamy,  then  suddenly  vivacious  and  twinkling.  She  raised 
her  head,  clapped  her  hands  —  she  was  still  as  gay  and  almost 
as  buoyant  as  a  child  —  and  hurried  away  to  find  her  secretary. 
The  result  of  her  inspiration  was  Rome  on  rollers. 

At  first  all  the  smart  "  boys  "  and  "  girls  "  of  Rome  began 
to  tumble  down  to  the  sound  of  music.  Then  they  began  to 
get  up,  and  their  places  on  the  marble  floor  of  the  palace  were 
taken  by  the  young  married  women  and  the  young  men,  sec- 
retaries of  embassy,  scions  of  the  great  Roman  houses,  travel- 
ing foreigners  with  good  introductions.  And  now,  when 
Duchess  Miravanti  gave  her  first  evening  party  for  skating  on 
a  grand  scale,  even  middle-aged  people,  the  intellectuals,  the 
erudite  with  beards  and  reputations,  and  those  who  had  hith- 
erto been  wholly  addicted  to  bridge,  were  earnestly  taking 
lessons  at  the  Sala  Pichetti.  A  well-known  senator  had 
broken  his  leg  only  the  day  before.  A  beautiful  princess,  with 
a  face  like  a  Muse  and  a  cloud  of  dense  black  hair,  boasted  of 
possessing  two  "  housemaid's  knees."  Mrs.  Tooms  —  at  least 
she  said  so  —  was  black  and  blue,  and  had  to  be  carefully 
"  made  up "  by  an  expert  of  the  theater  before  appearing 
in  public.  A  royal  lady  had  "  ricked  her  ankle."  And  it  was 
rumored  that  Mrs.  Faraway,  who  had  lived  in  Rome  to  the 
certain  knowledge  of  various  creditable  persons  for  the  last  five- 
and-forty  years,  and  had  certainly  been  in  existence  in  some 
other  quarter  of  the  Globe  some  thirty  years  before  that,  was 
"  thinking  of  beginning." 

Rome  loves  anything  that  gives  a  spice  of  novelty  to  an 
entertainment,  and  the  Duchess  had  therefore  decreed  that  all 
ladies  who  intended  to  skate  at  her  party  must  appear  en 
turban.    This    command    was    freely    interpreted    by    various 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  203 

pretty  women  to  mean  whatever  suited  them  best.  Countess 
Boccara,  for  Instance,  arrived  in  a  close-fitting  black  velvet 
gown,  cut  very  low,  with  two  patches,  and  a  sort  of  Phrygian 
cap,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  strayed  from  the  woods  of  The- 
ocritus into  Maxim's  and  changed  most  of  its  nature  there. 
Her  pretty  sister-in-law,  the  Duchess's  daughter,  had  powdered 
her  hair  and  wore  on  it  a  scarlet  cap,  not  unlike  Pierrot's,  only 
smaller.  A  handsome,  but  discontented-looking  American  girl. 
Miss  Phoebe  Crichit,  who  was  reported  to  have  three  millions 
of  dollars,  had  managed  to  make  herself  look  vaguely  Turkish, 
une  desenchantce  echappee  du  Harem,  as  Prince  Perreto 
whispered  to  Princess  Carelli,  the  mother  of  Cesare.  And 
"  Mimetta,"  otherwise  Princess  Giamarcho,  remembering  a 
certain  remark  about  a  sphinx,  had  arranged  her  silver  "  tur- 
ban "  In  a  manner  that  recalled  memories  of  the  museum  at 
Cairo  to  those  who  had  been  there,  and  that  afforded  "  The 
Tomtit "  an  opportunity  of  showing  his  knowledge  by  chris- 
tening her  "  Hathor,  the  lady  of  the  underworld." 

The  MiravantI  Palace  was  Immense,  but  the  Duchess  had 
invited  all  Rome  that  was  smart,  and  by  eleven  o'clock  even 
her  great  rooms  began  to  look  comfortably  filled.  In  March 
the  Roman  "  season  "  Is  at  its  height,  and  Rome  Is  thronged 
with  people  of  distinction,  and  people  who  think  themselves  so, 
from  all  parts  of  the  world.  Duchess  MiravantI  had  traveled, 
and  had  a  wide  and  cosmopolitan  acquaintance.  So  her  par- 
ties were  really  amusing,  and  in  her  palace  people  were  able  to 
escape  from  that  small  and  wearisome  round  of  Intimate  Ro- 
man tittle-tattle,  which  has  given  Rome  a  bad  name  for  gos- 
sip. Into  an  atmosphere  more  vital  and  Invigorating.  The 
Duchess  shunned  only  aggressive  bores,  vulgar  and  ill-bred 
people,  oddities,  cranks  and  those  who,  by  the  accident  of  sta- 
tion, did  not  happen  to  be  of  "  her  world."  The  rest  she  gen- 
ially welcomed,  including  Mrs.  Paraway,  who,  having  misun- 
derstood her  invitation,  and  being  under  the  Impression  that 
ail  the  female  guests  were  to  put  on  turbans,  appeared  in  one 
of  prodigious  size,  to  the  surprise  and  horror  of  the  hostess,  and 
the  amazed  amusement  of  many  of  the  guests. 

" Elle  va  patlner!  Mon  Dicuf  Mon  D'leu!"  exclaimed 
the  Duchess,  to  her  Intimate  friends  as  they  came  In  one  by  one. 
"  Si  elle  tembe,  c'est  fini!  Ngus  aurons  un  cadavre  dans  la 
maisonl " 

No  one  needed  to  ask  what  was  meant  by  elle.  The  friends 
of  the  Duchess  flocked  towards  the  picture  gallery,  eager,  it 


204  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

seemed,  to  be  "  In  at  the  death."  On  a  dais,  covered  with  red 
cloth,  a  string  band  was  playing  a  negro  melody  with  Southern 
vigor.  The  scraping  noise  of  the  multitude  of  skates,  as  they 
rolled  perpetually  over  the  marble,  mingled  with  the  music, 
with  the  loud  buzz  of  voices  and  the  tinkle  of  laughter.  Rome 
Is  become  cosmopolis,  a  strange  playground  for  the  nations. 
To-night  the  cheery  Duchess  had  provided  them  w^ith  a  game 
that  seemed  new.  Their  vigor  and  their  entrain  in  playing  It 
were  evidently  a  delight  to  the  large  company  of  dowagers, 
married  women  who  did  not  care  for  hard  exercises,  and  men 
old  and  otherwise,  who  sat  and  stood  looking  on.  Among 
these  were  Mrs.  Faraway,  whom  everybody  expected  —  on  ac- 
count of  the  turban  —  to  set  forth  presently  upon  the  marble  on 
a  short  voyage  to  the  other  world ;  Marchesa  Verosti ;  Princess 
Carelll;  Princess  Bartoldl,  the  beautiful  Sicilian  who  held  her 
court  at  the  Grand  Hotel;  Mrs.  Melville  Pringle;  Madame  de 
Heder;  Donna  Alice  Metardi,  and  many  more.  The  men 
numbered  Prince  Perreto;  Count  Boccara  on  the  lookout  for 
Mrs.  Tooms;  a  Spanish  nobleman  called  Y  Vives,  who  wrote 
plays  and  always  seemed  steeped  In  melancholy;  the  Swedish 
minister,  and  others.  Most  of  the  young  men  were  skating, 
were  looking  for  skates,  or  were  putting  on  the  skates  of  the 
women. 

Just  In  front  of  those  who  were  eagerly  watching,  under  the 
tall  picture  of  a  Pope,  sat  the  lovely  Princess  who  said  she  had 
"  housemaid's  knees."  Despite  her  affliction  she  was  going  to 
skate.  Her  great  eyes  were  sparkling  with  anticipation,  as 
she  stretched  one  small  foot  out  from  beneath  her  short  velvet 
dress  towards  an  adoring  young  man,  a  Neapolitan,  who  knelt 
on  the  marble  before  her,  and  with  muscular  and  eager  brown 
hands  proceeded  to  fix  on  her  skates.  The  music  made  an  al- 
most feverish  crescendo.  A  little  Polish  princess,  her  hands 
behind  her,  her  head  flung  back  in  a  sort  of  ecstasy  of  pleasure, 
went  swinging  by,  taking  Immense  curves  with  a  motion  almost 
like  flying. 

"  Presto !  Presto !  "  cried  the  lovely  princess  to  the  Nea- 
politan. 

Cleverly  he  sprang  up,  took  her  two  hands.  A  movement, 
and  they  were  gone  on  the  tide  of  the  music!  And  the  Pope 
looked  down  on  an  empty  chair. 

"Is  your  Cesare  here?"  asked  Princess  Bartoldl  of  Prin- 
cess Carelll. 

"  No,"   returned   Princess  Carelll,   In   a  wearj',   lack-luster 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  205 

voice,  that  yet  was  not  disagreeable.  "  But  he  said  he 
might  come.  Probably  he  won't.  He  seems  to  go  nowhere 
this  year." 

"  What  does  he  do  all  the  time?  " 

"  What  does  any  one  do?  I  never  know.  He  comes  in,  goes 
out,  sees  his  friends,  I  suppose,  visits  the  clubs,  dines  and  chi  lo 
saf     The  time  passes.     What  should  he  do?" 

Princess  Carelli,  perhaps  because  she  was  born  English,  was 
more  Italian  than  almost  any  Italian.  She  spoke  English  with 
a  strong  accent,  and  made  mistakes  in  the  construction  of  her 
English  sentences.  Her  movements  and  poses  were  Italian. 
She  had  introduced  an  Italian  timbre  into  her  voice.  She  was 
contemplative,  careless,  rigid  in  etiquette  with  her  equals,  fa- 
miliarly at  home  with  her  servants,  as  are  Italians.  But  she 
was  more  like  the  Italian  lady  who  does  not  travel  than  like 
the  smart  Italian  woman  who  gets  all  her  clothes  in  Paris,  runs 
over  to  London  in  June,  and  takes  the  cure  at  Aix  in  August. 
Princess  Carelli,  when  she  wanted  sea  air,  visited  Viareggio,  if 
she  must  have  a  cure  went  to  Salsomaggiore,  for  an  after-cure 
to  the  Abetone.  She  drove  in  a  shut  brougham,  or  a  closed 
motor,  seldom  or  never  walked,  and  was  in  casa  every  day 
to  her  friends  after  six  o'clock.  At  night  she  sat  up  very  late. 
In  the  morning  she  existed  only  for  her  maid,  and  for  a  few 
very  intimate  Italian  friends,  women  of  course.  She  was  short, 
very  stout,  and  yet  elegant,  unsmiling,  and  managed  somehow 
to  look  very  much  darker  than  she  really  was.  One  woman 
only  she  disliked  in  Rome,  and  that  woman  was  Princess  Man- 
cell  i. 

"  When  is  he  going  to  marry,  my  dear?  "  inquired  Marchesa 
Verosti. 

"Chi  lo  sa?"  returned  Princess  Carelli,  with  growing  lan- 
guor. The  louder  the  music,  the  more  rapid  the  skating,  the 
more  weary  and  detached  she  managed  to  look. 

"  We  are  all  expecting  it,"  persisted  the  Marchesa.  "  Since 
—  well,  we  are  all  expecting  it." 

"  I'm  afraid  that  will  not  help  matters." 

The  Princess  sighed. 

"  I  should  not  be  surprised  if  Cesare  never  married,"  she 
added. 

"  But  everyone  in  Cesare's  position  marries !  "  exclaimed  the 
Marchesa.     "The  only  son,  and  such  a  property  to  inherit!" 

"  Cesare  began  life  like  a  fool,"  drily  observed  the  Princess. 
"  Perhaps  he  thinks  he  has  earned  his  celibacy." 


2o6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  According   to    Mantegazza "    began    an   elderly   man 

standing  by. 

"  Don't  speak  of  that  old  horror  to  me!  "  said  the  Princess, 
not  changing  her  languid  tone.     "  He  is  on  my  index." 

"And  why,  if  one  may  ask,  Princess?" 

"  It  is  he  who  wrote  that  La  simpatia  e  I'unica  e  vera  sor- 
gente  dell'  amore.  Such  a  sacrilegious  absurdity!  And  be- 
sides, I  hate  his  style." 

"  But  my  dear  Adelaida  " —  began  the  Marchesa  energetically 
— "  'Tis  only  the  English  who  pretend  to  believe  such  nonsense, 
because  they  want  to  ranger  love,  to  make  it  respectable.  But 
we  Romans  know  better." 

*'  There  is  the  Marmotta  down  again!  " 

"  And  Giulio  Arrivamale  picking  her  up  —  again ! " 

"  I  wonder  how  Maria  likes  it?  " 

"  Maria  is  in  bed  with  a  cold." 

"How  dull!" 

The  music  changed  to  a  cake-walk.  The  musicians  m^ade 
each  new  thing  they  played  seem  like  the  last,  mere  rhythm 
and  accent  to  give  an  impulse  to  the  skaters.  A  powdery  film 
flew  up  from  the  marble  floor,  and  settled  lightly  on  the  hair, 
the  turbans,  the  gowns  and  the  coats  of  the  flying  couples, 
as  they  swung  monotonously  by  with  linked  hands,  smiling, 
talking,  or  silently  looking  at  one  another,  joined  in  the  strong 
sympathy  of  active  pleasure.  Louder  and  ever  louder  rose  the 
scraping  sound  under  Tiepolo's  roof  as  new  skaters  joined  the 
throng.  The  crowd  watching  at  the  end  of  the  gallery  be- 
came more  dense,  more  compact.  In  other  rooms  the  bridge 
players  were  sitting  down  to  the  tables. 

"  Has  she  ventured?  " 

The  Duchess  had  left  the  first  drawing-room,  and  now  was 
anxiously  looking  with  her  round  and  bird-like  eyes  towards 
the  skaters. 

"  No,  no,  she  is  there,  by  the  American  ambassadress." 

The  Duchess  breathed  a  sigh  of  relief.  She  perceived  the 
large  green  turban  of  Mrs.  Paraway  nodding  violently  as  she 
talked  to  a  handsome  fair  woman  covered  with  jewels,  who  was 
serenely  smiling  and  looking  on. 

"  She  clings  to  life  after  all.  It  is  a  natural  instinct.  But 
I  wish  she  would  take  off  her  turban,  dear  soul.  Then  I  should 
know  she  had  resolved  not  to  die  in  my  house." 

The  Duchess  turned,  and  saw  a  tall,  dark  and  delicate  look- 
ing man  coming  slowly  towards  her.     She  welcomed  him  with 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  207, 

the  genuine  warmth  which  made  her  such  a  popular  hostess. 

"  Mr.  Verrall!  How  glad  I  am!  When  did  you  arrive  in 
Rome?" 

"  Only  yesterday.     I  found  your  kind  card  at  the  Embassy." 

"  I  must  present  you  to  all  the  nice  people.  Tiens  1  There 
is  Lady  Cannynge  coming  in!     Do  you  know  her?  " 

"  Not  at  all." 

"  I  will  present  you."  The  Duchess  lowered  her  voice. 
"  Her  husband  was  the  great  friend  of  poor  Denzil,  your  pre- 
decessor. He  is  guardian  to  the  children,  I  believe,  and  is 
looking  after  them  all.  One  never  sees  him  anywhere.  Main- 
tenant  il  est  bon  pere  de  jam'ille." 

Although  she  spoke  excellent  English  she  often  broke  into 
French. 

"  That  was  a  very  sad  business,"  said  Mr.  Verrall  sympa- 
thetically. 

"  Mr.  Verrall,  the  new  Councillor  at  your  Embassy  —  Lady 
Cannynge,"  said  the  Duchess.  "  I  am  glad  you  are  en  turban 
and  mean  to  skate." 

And  she  turned  away  to  greet  the  Princess  Mancelli,  who 
came  up  alone,  not  wearing  a  turban. 

Eric  Verrall,  who  —  as  became  an  ambitious  diplomat  —  was 
a  keen  observer,  saw,  or  in  that  first  moment  believed  he  saw, 
in  Lady  Cannynge  a  gay  and  perhaps  brilliant  woman  of  the 
world.  The  rose  color  in  her  hair  emphasized  the  darkness  of 
her  eyes,  which  looked  to  the  diplomat  almost  malicious.  The 
lips  had  the  slight  suggestion  of  hardness  which  comes  to  the 
lips  of  so  many  women  who  are  much  in  contact  with  social 
life,  a  hardness  which  implies  a  soul  on  the  defensive,  a  heart 
that  has  learnt  to  be  wary  of  ambush.  A  light  irony  flickered 
surely  on  this  face.  And  yet  —  the  diplomat  began  to  realize 
that  malice  and  irony  could  not  be  natural  expressions  of  the 
tall,  slim,  and  still  almost  girlish  woman  who  stood  before 
him.  They  spoke  for  a  moment  of  Rome,  of  the  skating. 
Then  Verrall  said: 

"  My  coming  here  must  give  pain  to  some  people  I'm  afraid." 

"  Why  ?  "  asked  Lady  Cannynge,  with  a  slight  lift  of  her 
eyebrows. 

"  My  predecessor  was  such  a  good  fellow,  I  have  heard,  and 
had  staunch  friends  here." 

"  Oh  —  yes.  But  you  cannot  suppose  anyone  will  be  prej- 
udiced against  you  on  that  account." 

"  Prejudices  have  their  roots  in  strange  ground.     Will  you 


2o8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

be  kind  and  tell  me  where  Mrs.  Denzil  lives?  She  will  be 
the  first  person  on  whom  I  shall  leave  a  card,  with  an  expres- 
sion of  my  sympathy." 

"  You  will  have  to  go  out  to  Frascati." 

"She  has  left  Rome?" 

"  Yes.  She  is  living  at  Frascati  with  her  mother.  But  one 
can  get  there  in  twenty  minutes  with  a  good  motor.  What  did 
we  all  do  without  motors?  They  have  annihilated  space. 
Frascati  is  practically  Rome  now,  which  is,  of  course,  delight- 
ful for  the  people  who  live  at  Frascati.  How  lovely  the  view 
is  from  the  height  above  Tusculum.     You  have  never  seen  it?  " 

"  No." 

*'  You  must.  My  husband  thinks  It  one  of  the  views  of 
the  world.  I  am  going  to  skate.  Do  come  and  see  us.  We 
are  in  the  Palazzo  Barberini." 

A  young  Italian  spoke  to  her.  People  came  up.  Verrall 
saw  her  dark  and  graceful  head,  crowned  with  the  cleverly 
arranged  twists  of  bright  rose-color,  moving  towards  the  music 
and  the  scraping  sound  of  the  skates,  her  lips  smiling  as  she 
talked  to  her  companion  or  to  the  many  who  greeted  her  on 
her  way. 

"  Surely,"  he  thought,  "  I  heard  that  Denzil  was  operated 
upon,  and  died,  in  her  apartment.  It  was  in  the  Barberini, 
I  know." 

There  came  to  him,  as  more  than  once  there  had  come  to 
him  before,  a  sensation  of  unpleasant  wonder  at  what  seemed 
the  hardness  inherent  In  many,  perhaps  in  most,  women. 

"  And  why,  in  Heaven's  name,  do  we  need  softness  in  them?  " 
he  asked  himself,  "  always  softness !  " 

"  Mr.  Verrall,  let  me  present  you  to  Princess  Mancelli." 

The  Duchess  was  hospitably  determined  that  the  newcomer 
should  not  pass  a  dull  evening. 

Meanwhile  Dolores  was  joining  the  skaters. 

For  a  fortnight  after  the  death  of  Denzil  she  had  gone 
nowhere.  She  had  attended  the  quiet  funeral  in  the  Protestant 
cemetery  outside  Rome,  where  pilgrims  go  to  stand  at  the  foot 
of  the  sad  poet's  grave.  She  had  seen  the  sun  shining  through 
the  cypress  trees  upon  the  three  small  children  dressed  in  black, 
and,  with  tears,  she  had  asked  herself  whether  ever  again  she 
would  have  faith  and  courage  enough  to  pray  to  the  mysteri- 
ous God.  She  had  remembered  the  words  of  a  collect:  "O 
God,  who  declarest  Thy  Almighty  power  most  chiefly  in  show- 
ing mercy  and  pity,"  and  she  had  repeated  them  mentally  again 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  209 

and  again.  "  Are  they  true?  Are  they  true?  "  she  had  said  to 
herself.  And  she  had  seen  the  sun  shining  through  the  cypress 
trees  upon  those  three  little  children  dressed  in  black,  upon 
the  mother  who  stood  beside  them,  holding  tightly  the  hand 
of  the  tiniest.  She  had  heard  the  dry  sound  of  earth  fall- 
ing on  the  lid  of  the  box  which  contained  Francis  Denzil  — 
or  his  body.  Which?  That  hideous  question  had  come  to  her 
then. 

And  now,  with  rose-color  in  her  hair,  she  was  going  towards 
the  Duchess's  picture  gallery  to  skate  under  the  painted  eyes 
of  dead  Popes  to  the  sound  of  a  cake-walk. 

How  had  she  come  to  it?  She  knew,  and  yet  sometimes  It 
seemed  to  her  as  if  she  did  not  really  know.  And  afterwards 
trying  to  look  back,  not  only  on  the  few  days  between  Denzil's 
funeral  and  the  Duchess's  skating  party,  but  on  the  many  days 
that  followed  them,  she  said  to  herself,  "  I  don't  know.  We 
never  really  know." 

For  a  fortnight  few  had  seen  her,  and  no  one  in  the  social 
world.  Then  she  had  reappeared  at  a  dinner  given  by  the 
Countess  Boccara,  to  which  Sir  Theodore  had  been  asked  but 
had  not  been  able  to  come. 

"  Theo's  in  England,"  she  had  said,  In  reply  to  inquiries. 
*'  He  had  some  business  in  London." 

That  seemed  natural  enough.  Dolores  did  not  say  that  Sir 
Theodore  was  in  London  on  a  dead  man's  business.  Two  or 
three  people  began  to  speak  to  her  of  the  sad  happenings  in 
her  apartment.  They  did  not  continue.  There  had  been  an 
expression  in  her  eyes  which  had  stopped  them.  It  was  re- 
pellent.    It  was  like  the  decisive  shutting  of  a  door. 

*'  She  does  not  care  to  talk  of  it,"  people  said. 

But  they  did  not  understand  why  she  did  not  care  to  talk 
of  It. 

"  She's  an  odd  sort  of  a  woman,"  one  or  two  of  them  added. 

And  indeed  from  this  time  the  feeling  grew  up  and  spread 
In  the  Rome  that  knew,  or  knew  of  Dolores,  that  she  was  "  an 
odd  sort  of  a  woman." 

Sir  Theodore  had  returned  from  London  two  days  after 
the  Countess  Boccara's  dinner,  and  from  that  time  it  was  an 
understood  thing  that  he  would  take  no  part  in  the  season. 

"  Theo's  not  going  anywhere,"  Dolores  said.  "  And  we 
shall  not  do  any  more  entertaining  this  spring." 

She  did  not  add  any  reason,  but  every  one  of  course  under- 
stood. 


210  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

This  was  a  mark  of  respect  to  Denzil's  memory.  That 
Lady  Cannynge  went  out  was  also  understood.  It  would  be 
very  odd  for  a  woman  to  give  everything  up  on  account  of 
the  death  of  a  man  who  stood  in  no  relationship  to  her.  Good 
feeling  and  etiquette  were  both  satisfied.  And  Dolores  was 
made  much  of  by  every  one.  The  Romans  felt  that  she  had 
passed  through  a  sad  time,  and  must  be  petted  and  helped  to 
forget  it.  Romans  can  be  very  staunch  friends.  Dolores  was 
liked,  and  now  this  general  liking  was  markedly  shown. 

She  seemed  to  respond,  and  almost  with  ardor,  displaying 
social  qualities  more  vigorous,  more  brilliant,  more  determined 
than  any  she  had  shown  before. 

"  It's  a  pity,"  the  little  Boccara  remarked.  "  Dolores  Can- 
nynge is  coming  out  of  her  genre.  I  told  her  long  ago  what 
it  was.  .Every  woman  who  isn't  a  fool  should  know  what  her 
genre  is,  and  remain  in  it." 

The  little  Boccara  was  not  in  the  best  of  humors.  For  she 
was  —  secretly,  or  so  she  thought  —  coming  out  of  her  own 
genre.  She  was  beginning  to  be  jealous  of  her  husband  with 
Mrs.  Tooms.  Mrs.  Tooms  was  certainly  the  plainest  of  all 
the  ladies  whom  Nino  believed  himself  to  have  loved.  This 
was,  perhaps,  the  reason  why  the  Countess  began  to  be  jealous. 
And  Nino  had  ceased  from  talking  to  his  wife  about  Mrs. 
Tooms.  His  reticence  was  a  symptom  which  made  all  the 
Frenchwoman  bristle.  Even  the  diminishing  size  of  her  waist 
ceased  from  occupying  her  mind  exclusively,  and  she  began  to 
hate  Mrs.  Tooms,  although  she  believed  that  the  American  was 
"  ridiculously  respectable."  Indeed  if  Mrs.  Tooms  had  been 
wicked  Countess  Boccara  would  have  been  less  jealous  of  her. 
The  Countess  knew  this,  but  she  did  not  know  why  it  was. 

When  she  left  Verrall  Dolores  went  into  a  corridor  that  ran 
parallel  with  the  picture  gallery,  and  sat  down  on  a  long 
settee,  while  the  young  Italian  who  had  accompanied  her,  Mar- 
chese  Alarini,  hurried  off  into  the  hall  to  find  her  a  pair  of 
skates.  For  the  moment  there  was  no  one  in  this  corridor. 
Every  one  who  meant  to  skate  was  already  skating.  The  bridge 
players  had  made  up  their  tables.  Those  who  loved  quiet  con- 
versation were  scattered  through  the  long  series  of  immense 
drawing-rooms,  or  were  standing  before  the  buffet.  The  rest 
of  the  crowd  were  watching  the  skaters,  who  used  the  corri- 
dor as  a  promenade  when  the  band  was  silent.  Alarini  did 
not  come  back  immediately  as  Dolores  had  expected.  She 
leaned  back  and  fidgeted  with  her  fan. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  211 

"  Who  declarest  Thy  Almighty  power  most  chiefly  in  show- 
ing mercy  and  pity." 

Why  should  those  words  recur  to  her  mind  now? 

The  noise  of  the  multitudes  of  skates  on  the  marble  was  very 
loud  in  her  ears.  It  gave  her  an  impression  of  violence  rather 
than  of  pleasure.  She  imagined  the  skaters,  whose  voices  she 
could  hear  breaking  in  disjointedly  upon  the  heavy  accented 
music,  turning  perpetually  upon  their  steps,  covering  perpetu- 
ally the  same  ground,  joyously  advancing  only  to  retreat. 
Their  buoyant  movements  suggested  a  setting  out  on  some 
glorious  journey  to  an  enticing  unknown.  But  at  the  end 
of  the  gallery  there  were  only  gossiping  dowagers,  staring  and 
commenting  men.  And  there  the  skaters  must  turn  and  come 
just  as  buoyantly  back.  She  heard  a  fearful  scrape,  almost  like 
a  cry,  and  a  crash.  Some  one  —  two  or  three  people  perhaps  — 
had  certainly  fallen.  But  the  music  did  not  stop  for  a  moment. 
And  the  violinists  seemed  to  dwell  more  heavily  on  the  accents, 
like  tired  people  leaning.  She  wondered  why  she  had  come. 
She  did  not  want  to  skate.  But  she  would  skate,  and  already 
she  skated  well.  And  perhaps  later  she  would  play  bridge. 
She  had  improved  wonderfully  in  her  play  every  one  said. 
There  was  soon  to  be  a  very  smart  bridge  tournament  in  one 
of  the  palaces.  She  was  going  in  for  it.  She  often  played  in 
the  afternoon  now.  Perhaps  she  would  win  if  she  drew  a  good 
partner.  The  woman's  prize  was  a  jewel.  It  would  be  a 
triumph  to  win  that  jewel. 

She  sighed,  and  looked  down  at  her  fan,  turning  it  slowly 
round  and  round  in  her  hands.  In  a  moment,  while  she  made 
this  useless  movement  and  as  uselessly  watched  it,  she  knew 
that  some  one  was  looking  at  her  intently.  She  did  not  look  up. 
She  asked  herself  who  it  was.  And  the  answer  came  at  once, 
"  It  is  Cesare  Carelli."  The  quiet  knowledge  of  a  not  im- 
portant fact  was  within  her.  She  looked  up  and  met  Carelli's 
eyes.  And  immediately  she  knew  that  the  fact  was  not  unim- 
portant. There  was  steady  intention  expressed  in  those  black 
eyes.  Though  it  died  out,  or  retreated  instantly  as  she  looked 
up,  so  swiftly  indeed  that  the  disappearance  almost  coincided 
with  the  slight  lifting  of  her  head,  Dolores  had  perceived  it 
as  certainly  as  she  would  have  perceived  a  great  and  obsti- 
nate figure  which  planted  itself  in  her  path.  That  the  figure 
stepped  swiftly  aside,  vanished  in  forest  depths,  could  not  alter 
the  fact  of  its  appearance  before  her,  or  the  impression  it  left 
with  her. 


212  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Cesare  held  in  his  left  hand  two  pairs  of  skates.  iWhen 
Dolores  looked  up  he  came  towards  her,  smiling. 

"  Why  are  you  all  alone,  Lady  Cannynge?  "  he  asked. 

He  bent,  took  her  hand,  lifted  it  to  his  lips,  and  with  those 
lips  touched  it.     Dolores  felt  his  firm  mouth  through  her  glove. 

"  I  am  waiting  for  Emilio  Alarini.  He  has  gone  to  get  my 
skates." 

"  I  saw  him  hunting  for  something  in  a  distant  hall.  But 
these  are  the  last  two  pairs." 

He  held  up  the  four  skates,  which  knocked  together  with  a 
dry  little  sound. 

"Did  you  tell  him?" 

"  No.  He  did  not  tell  me  what  he  was  searching  for.  It 
m.ight  be  anything." 

"  Don't  you  think  you  ought  to  go  now  and  let  him  know, 
poor  boy  ?  " 

Her  face  had  changed.  She  was  smiling,  and  looked  gay 
and  rather  ironical. 

"  Emilio  is  very  determined.  He  has  been  at  Oxford,  you 
know,  and  has  grafted  the  cold  fixity  of  purpose  of  the  English- 
man upon  the  mercurial  energy  of  the  Northern  Italian.  It 
would  be  a  pity  to  stop  up  the  channel  in  which  his  energy 
is  flowing.  'Besides,  chi  lo  sa,  he  may  commit  an  act  of  brigand- 
age.    Let  me  put  on  your  skates." 

"  Are  they  for  me  ?  " 

"  Of  course." 

He  knelt  down  before  her. 

"  Whom  were  they  for?  "  Dolores  asked. 

She  had  not  stretched  out  a  foot.  Cesare,  on  one  knee,  his 
strong,  broad-chested  and  hollow-backed  body  leaning  away 
from  her  as  he  looked  into  her  face  with  his  unselfconscious 
eyes,  paused  before  he  replied: 

**  I  saw  there  were  only  two  pairs  left.  I  thought  it  wise 
to  take  both.  One  never  knows  how  soon  an  emergency  may 
arise.     And  here  it  is  already." 

"Well  then " 

She  stretched  out  her  left  foot.  He  took  it  gently  in  his 
hand  and  drew  it  down  into  one  of  the  skates.  While  he  did 
this  he  was  silent.  So  long  as  he  was  touching  Dolores  he 
was  silent,  and  so  was  she.  Afterwards  she  thought  of  that. 
At  the  moment  this  mutual  silence  was  instinctive.  When 
both  skates  were  on  he  got  up,  and  sat  beside  her  on  the  settee 
to  put  on  his.     And  immediately  they  began  to  talk. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  213 

"  Do  you  care  for  this  rage?  "  he  said,  as  he  threw  one  leg 
across  his  knee,  and  bent  sideways  to  fasten  a  skate. 

"  It  is  a  good  exercise  and  it  gives  us  all  something  to  do." 

"  Yes." 

He  put  his  foot  down  sharply,  and  tried  the  skate  on  the 
floor. 

"  But  there  is  something  awfully  artificial  about  it,"  he  con- 
tinued, beginning  to  attend  to  the  other  skate.  "  Skating  by 
electric  light  between  popes  and  cardinals  on  mosaic  floors  under 
Tiepolo  ceilings!  " 

He  tried  the  other  skate,  pushing  his  foot  to  and  fro. 

"  We  are  incongruous  here  in  Rome.  But  no  one  seems  to 
notice  it.  And  I  suppose  it  would  be  ridiculous  to  try  to  live 
up  to  our  palaces.  I  feel  more  at  my  ease  in  the  open  air. 
I  often  wonder  " —  he  looked  into  her  face,  which  always  had 
in  it  something  exotic — "whether  any  woman  can  care  for 
being  out  in  the  open  as  a  man  can.  I  don't  suppose  it  is 
possible." 

*'  Perhaps  you  don't  wish  it  to  be  possible." 

Although  they  were  sitting  with  their  skates  on,  and  felt 
unnatural,  as  the  skater  does  when  not  in  movement,  or  poised, 
neither  seemed  inclined  to  join  the  crowd  in  the  gallery  just 
behind  them. 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  think  men  hug  the  idea  that  they  have  powers  of  enjoy- 
ment which  we  don't  possess." 

"  Which  do  you  think  enjoy  life  most,  men  or  women  ?  " 

"  Men." 

"  I  expect  you  are  right.     I  should  hate  to  be  a  woman." 

The  apparent  calmness  with  which  Carelli  made  that  state- 
ment filled  Dolores  with  a  sudden  irritation. 

"Why?"  she  asked,  with  a  hint  of  sharpness. 

"  Probably  because  I  can't  imagine  what  it  is  like,"  he 
answered  gently,  and  smiling  as  if  at  himself.  "  I  have  not 
enough  imagination.  And  all  my  instinct  is  against  what  I 
suppose  appeals  to  women." 

"  And  what  is  that?  "  said  Dolores,  disarmed  and  with  genu- 
ine curiosity. 

He  turned  a  little  more  towards  her. 

"  Don't  you  want  to  be  protected ?  " 

"  I?  " 

"  Women,  I  mean,  to  be  watched  over,  waited  on,  to  be 
given  things?  " 


214  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Perhaps  we  do." 

"  I  want  to  take  things  for  myself.  I  should  hate  to  be 
protected,  waited  on,  except  by  a  servant.  I  should  hate  to 
be  looked  after.  My  idea  of  life  is  freedom,  and  I  don't  think 
women  are  ever  free.  Besides,  I  don't  even  think  they  ought  to 
be.  It  seems  to  me  against  the  nature  of  things  for  a  woman 
to  be  quite  free." 

The  irritation  of  Dolores  had  quite  died  away. 

"  I  daresay  you  are  right,"  she  said.  "  I  don't  believe  we 
ever  long  for  freedom  merely  as  an  ideal  state,  as  I  suppose 
men  do.  We  may  long  to  be  free  from  some  particular  thing, 
or  person.  But  there  it  ends.  Complete  freedom  would  seem 
to  me  a  very  lonely  condition,  I  think." 

For  a  moment  her  eyes  rested  on  him  with  an  expression  of 
contemplation  that  was  searching  and  almost  profound. 

"  And  even  for  a  man  like  you,"  she  added. 

At  this  moment  with  a  loud  chord  the  music  stopped,  and 
people  began  to  hobble  into  the  corridor,  laughing,  talking, 
stumbling,  touching  the  walls,  being  helped  along.  Many  sat 
down  with  an  abruptness  that  had  nothing  of  grace.  Some 
hurried  away,  lifting  high  their  feet  and  taking  short  steps, 
in  search  of  refreshments. 

"  How  absurd  we  all  look !  "  said  Dolores. 

Her  face  had  broken  up  into  smiles.  She  nodded  to  several 
of  the  skaters.  Countess  Boccara  passed  by,  stepping  daintily, 
and  holding  on  to  a  tall  young  Frenchman.  She  was  a  very 
bad  skater,  and  hated  it,  t'ut  she  wished  to  be  in  the  fashion. 
iWhen  she  had  gone  by,  as  if  suddenly  attracted  by  something 
she  turned  her  head,  and,  looking  back,  saw  Dolores  and  Carelli. 
Still  holding  fast  to  the  young  Frenchman,  who  was  fair,  ironic, 
manicured,  and  slightly  overdressed,  and  who  held  his  head 
a  little  on  one  side  in  a  way  that  displeased  other  men,  she 
said: 

"  Dolores  " —  she  had  taken  to  calling  Lady  Cannynge  by 
her  Christian  name — "how  late  you  are!  Have  you  only  just 
put  on  your  skates?     Do  stand  still,  Jules!  " 

"  Yes." 

"Did  you  hear  that  crash  just  now?  —  Cesare,  I  want  to 
speak  to  you  presently  —  Did  you  ?  —  Don't  forget,  Cesare." 

"Yes.     Who  was  "it?" 

"  Mrs.  Tooms  and  Nino.     They  say  she  has  made  a  dent  in 

the  marble.     Jules,  if  you  don't  stand  still "    Her  feet  shot 

out  and  for  a  moment  she  presented  herself  to  the  company 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  215 

almost  in  the  form  of  an  arch.  But  though  no  skater  she  was 
as  lithe  as  a  monkey  and  made  a  clever  recovery." 

"  A  new  figure!  No  one  can  do  it  but  me!  "  she  said,  stand- 
ing suddenly  rigid.  "  Are  you  going  to  play  in  the  tournament, 
Dolores?" 

"  I  believe  so.      Are  you  ?  " 

*'  Of  course.  The  Grand  Duke  insists  on  my  being  his 
partner.  Such  a  bore!  He  plays  like  —  a  royalty.  Tons  ces 
Grands  Dues  ni'ennu'ient  tellement!  By  the  way  is  it  really 
true  that  you  are  going  to  spend  all  the  summer  near  Rome  ?  " 

"  The  summer !  Of  course  not.  We  always  go  away  in  the 
summer.     What  could  make  you  think  so  ?  " 

"  I  heard  Sir  Theodore  was  perpetually  at  Frascati  trying 
to  find  a  villa." 

"  Absurd !     We  are  going  to  England  for  the  summer." 

"  I  felt  sure  it  was  a  potin.  I  said  I  was  certain  Sir  Theo- 
dore didn't  go  to  Frascati  twice  in  the  year.  It's  the  sort  of 
place  where  Nino  retires  with  Mrs.  Tooms  to  spend  a  quiet 
hour  gazing  at  the  tiresome  old  dome  of  St.  Paul's — or  do 
I  mean  St.  Peter's? —  Help  me,  Jules!  Ah!  Marcantonio,  take 
my  other  arm." 

She  stepped  carefully  away,  talking  rapidly  to  the  two  young 
men,  and  glancing  about  her  for  admirers. 

"How  pretty  she  is!"  Dolores  said,  looking  after  her. 
"  That  lovely  red  hair." 

"  Certainly  she  is  pretty,"  Cesare  answered. 

Their  eyes  met  for  an  instant,  and  Dolores  felt  certain  that 
the  same  thought  had  passed  simultaneously  through  both  their 
minds.  Emilio  Alarini  came  hurrying  up  with  a  pair  of  skates 
in  his  hand.  He  looked  angry  but  as  if  he  were  trying  not  to 
show  his  vexation, 

"Impossible  to  find  two  pairs!"  he  exclaimed,  in  a  gruff 
but  boyish  voice.  "  I  managed  at  last  " —  his  eyes  went  to 
the  feet  of  Dolores.  "  You've  got  a  pair !  You've  been  skat- 
ing." 

"  I  haven't  begun  yet.  Now  it's  all  right.  We  shall  each 
have  a  pair." 

"  But  " —  he  stared  hard  at  Cesare,  who  met  his  fiery,  boyish 
glance  with  the  calm  and  determined  eyes  of  a  man  who  was 
not  accustomed  to  yield  to  other  men. 

The  orchestra  began  to  play  once  more.  And  it  played  the 
barcarolle  from  the  Contes  d'lloffmann,  which  that  season 
was  the  best  beloved  tune  of  smart  Rome.     Instinctively  Do- 


2i6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

lores  turned  her  head.  Cesare  fixed  his  eyes  on  the  curve  of 
her  long  white  neck.  How  almost  exaggeratedly  feminine  it 
was!  He  had  known,  he  had  been  something  like  the  prey  of 
a  passionate  woman  for  many  years.  Yet  as  he  looked  at  Do- 
lores he  felt  like  the  man  who  has  never  entered  the  secret  gar- 
den in  which  woman  reveals  to  her  appointed  companion  the 
foundation  truth  of  life. 

"  Then,  shall  I  put  on  my  skates?  "  almost  stammered  young 
Alarini,  still  looking  out  of  -the  tail  of  his  eye  at  Carelli. 

"  Of  course." 

Alarini  shot  a  defiant  glance  at  Cesare,  and  sat  quickly  down. 

"  I  won't  be  a  minute." 

Cesare  stood  up  and  held  out  his  hand  to  Dolores. 

"  It's  difficult  getting  up.     Let  me  help  you." 

She  glanced  up  at  him,  but  did  not  immediately  put  her  hand 
in  his.  Alarini  almost  furiously  buckled  on  a  skate.  Cesare 
looked  steadily  down  at  Dolores.     She  gave  him  her  hand. 

"  Oh,  but  Lady  Cannynge!  "  exclaimed  Alarini. 

He  was  bent  over  one  foot.  His  forehead  was  flushed  below 
his  thick  and  shining  black  hair,  which  shone  almost  like  a 
varnished  boot.  His  hands  worked  quickly,  but  no  longer  effi- 
ciently, on  the  other  skate. 

"  Come  and  find  me  presently.  I  want  to  skate  with  you. 
You  skate  so  well,"  Dolores  said  to  him,  with  gentle  kindness. 
"  I  shall  be  in  the  gallery." 

"Oh,  thank  you!     But " 

She  turned,  and  looking  almost  unnaturally  slim  and  tall 
raised  up  on  her  skates,  she  stepped  slowly  away  helped  by 
Carelli. 

"  Damn !  "  muttered  Alarini  to  himself. 

He  had  the  mania  for  things  English,  and  this  utterance  of 
an  English  bad  w^ord  somewhat  relieved  his  mind.  But  he 
longed  to  challenge  Cesare  to  a  duel.  And  at  the  same  time 
he  suddenly  admired  him  immensely,  and  wished  he  were  his 
friend.     What  conquerors  of  women  they  would  be! 

As  Dolores  stepped  into  the  gallery  she  felt  very  unhappy, 
because  she  had  yielded  to  Cesare's  wish  that  she  should  skate 
first  with  him.  Not  that  such  a  trifle  mattered !  And  yet  she 
could  not  help  feeling  that  it  did  matter  very  much  because  it 
was  a  symptom  of  character.  Even  now  there  was  time.  She 
need  not  begin  to  skate.  But  she  would  begin.  She  knew  that. 
She  could  not  possibly  help  beginning.  And  Carelli  gave  her 
his  hand,  and,  exchanging  their  careful  stepping  movement  for 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  217 

the  swinging  elan  that  is  a  joy  to  healthy  bodies,  they  struck 
out  together  over  the  smooth  marble. 

Not  many  people  as  yet  had  returned  to  the  gallery.  But  the 
little  Polish  princess  was  already  there,  and  as  usual  was 
skating  alone.  She  was  almost  a  child,  not  tall,  softly  rounded, 
plump,  with  a  face  like  a  joyous  and  very  intelligent  baby. 
And,  to  her,  skating  was  just  an  ecstasy.  She  gave  herself  to 
it  with  a  complete  abandon  that  was  almost  startling.  Never 
would  she  hold  any  one's  hand.  She  could  not  bear  to  be  fet- 
tered, and  she  knew  that  no  one  in  Rome  could  skate  as  she 
did.  Half  smiling,  with  her  little  round  head,  thickly  covered 
with  strong  brown  hair,  thrown  back,  she  shot  out  in  a  great 
curve  to  the  left,  in  a  great  curve  to  the  right,  as  if  she  saw 
before  her  the  shining  ice  tracks  of  a  virgin  world.  Marble, 
cardinals,  popes,  princes,  Tiepolo  ceilings,  they  did  not  exist 
for  her.  Her  bright  eyes  were  nearly  closed.  Their  light 
seemed  directed  inward.  Dolores  and  Cesare  followed  her  and 
kept  their  eyes  upon  her.  And  almost  immediately  Dolores 
lost  her  feeling  of  unhappiness.  It  was  as  if  she  emerged  from 
a  black  room.  But  the  door  remained  open  behind  her.  And 
she  was  aware  of  that,  and  knew  that  she  would  presently  re- 
turn to  the  room. 

Meanwhile,  however,  she  was  out  of  it,  and  holding  Cesare's 
strong  hand  she  followed  the  little  princess. 

Among  those  who  were  gathered  at  the  end  of  the  gallery 
were  the  Princess  Mancelli  and  the  new  Councillor  of  the 
British  Embassj^  Mr.  Verrall  had  heard  of  the  Princess  as 
one  of  the  leaders  of  Rome.  He  thought  it  would  be  to  his 
advantage  if  he  made  a  good  impression  upon  her.  She  might 
"  put  him  up  to  the  ropes  "  if  she  chose.  And  he  found  her 
very  agreeable.  He  knew  nothing  of  her  long  connection  with 
Cesare  Carelli,  and  now,  as  the  music  began  again  he  said  to  her: 

"  How  well  Lady  Cannynge  skates!  Can  you  tell  me  who 
that  man  is  with  her?" 

"  His  name  is  Carelli,  Cesare  Carelli.  That  is  hi?  mother 
sitting  over  there  by  Princess  Bartoldi.  She  is  talking  to  a 
thin  old  man,  do  you  see?  " 

"  Yes.  I  remember  now  I  have  heard  of  them.  The  Prin- 
cess is  English." 

"  Was  English." 

Verrall  looked  Interrogative. 

"  She  is  far  more  Italian  now  than  any  of  us,"  said  the 
Princess,  with  a  light  Irony.     "  But  it  is  a  case  of  the  Protes- 


2i8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

tant  converted  to  the  Catholic  Church.  You  know  what  I  mean 
by  that,  of  course  ?  " 

"  Perfectly.     And  the  son !  " 

Dolores  and  Cesare  swept  by,  turned,  and  went  away  with  a 
rush  in  the  gathering  crowd  of  the  skaters. 

"Cesare?"  said  the  Princess,  with  an  easy  familiarity  in 
which  there  was  not  a  hint  of  embarrassment.  "  He  is  a  bon 
enfant.  Not  very  much  in  him,  perhaps,  but  thoroughly  bon 
enfant.  Men  like  him,  I  believe.  Lady  Cannynge  is  a  charm- 
ing creature." 

"  I  should  think,  very." 

"  And  she  is  coming  out  wonderfully." 

"In  what  way  exactly  do  you  mean.  Princess?" 

"  Well,  she  was  always  delicious.  But  she  was  rather  like 
an  exotic  flower  that  had  a  secret  desire  to  lie  in  hiding.  She 
was  very  reserved,  I  think,  in  a  sort  of  gentle,  mysterious  way. 
But  now  she  is  more  resolute,  more  definitely  femme  du  monde. 
She  shows  more  marked  social  qualities  than  she  used  to.  Look 
how  she  skates.  And  she's  developing  into  a  capital  bridge 
player  too.  She's  altogether  more  brilliant  lately.  Even  in 
the  last  few  weeks  she  seems  to  have  come  on  in  an  extra- 
ordinary way.  She  may  become  quite  a  leader  of  the  younger 
cosmopolitan  set  if  she  likes,  I  should  think.  But  this  season 
unfortunately  she  can't  entertain,  on  account  of  her  husband." 

"That  tragic  business  of  my  predecessor?" 

"  Yes.  It  seems  that  Sir  Theodore  was  very  devoted  to  his 
friend,  and  that  as  the  death  took  place  actually  in  his  apart- 
ment he  resolved  to  close  it  for  the  season  to  all  gaieties.  Lady 
Cannynge  receives,  of  course,  but  only  in  a  very  small  way  and 
never  at  night." 

"  I  understand  Sir  Theodore  Cannynge's  feeling." 

"  Yes,  of  course.  So  Lady  Cannynge  comes  out  to  amuse 
herself." 

Again  Verrall  thought  of  the  hardness  of  women.  He  did 
not,  however,  think  the  Princess  Mancelli  hard.  Somehow  she 
had  managed  to  convey  to  him  an  impression  that  she  agreed 
with  his  secret  feeling,  that  she,  too,  was  wondering  a  little 
at,  if  not  actually  condemning  Lady  Cannynge. 

"  It  was  a  very  sad  affair,"  the  Princess  added.  "  There  are 
three  small  children  and  they  seemed  a  very  united  family. 
Indeed  I'm  afraid  we  used  to  make  it  almost  a  reproach  to 
Mr.  Denzil  in  Rome  that  he  was  too  domestic.  You  see  in 
diplomacy " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  219 

"  Yes,  I  know  what  you  mean." 

And  they  drifted  into  a  conversation  in  which  they  were  both 
very  much  at  their  ease.  For  Verrall  was  devoted  to  his 
profession,  and  Princess  Mancelli  could  have  been  the  perfect 
wife  to  a  great  diplomat. 

"  I  must  skate  with  Alarini  now,"  said  Dolores  to  Cesare. 
"  He  is  standing  in  the  doorway,  and  looking  as  if  I  had  done 
him  a  deadly  wrong." 

Immediately  Cesare  began  to  skate  more  slowly. 

"  Do  you  want  me  to  stop  by  him?  "  he  asked. 

"  Oh  no.     Leave  me  somewhere  and  he  will  come  to  me." 

"Among  the  dowagers?" 

"Why  not?" 

"  I  will  take  you  to  my  mother." 

At  that  moment  Cesare's  voice  sounded  exactly  as  if  it  were 
smiling.  But  when  he  spoke  again  the  smile  was  certainly 
gone. 

"  You  remember  our  conversation  about  freedom  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  I  think  perhaps  I  gave  you  a  wrong  impression." 

She  turned  her  eyes  towards  his.  And  again  she  saw  in  his 
the  steady  intention  that  was  almost  like  a  great  and  obstinate 
figure  standing  in  her  path.  This  time,  however,  it  did  not 
retreat. 

"  I  told  you  I  loved  freedom.  But  I  am  not  free.  And 
I  don't  even  wish  to  be  free.     I  will  go  and  tell  Alarini." 

He  left  Dolores  by  his  mother. 

Cesare  might  be  bon  enfant,  as  Princess  Mancelli  affirmed, 
but  he  had  a  good  deal  of  the  astuteness,  by  some  called  cun- 
ning, which  belongs  to  most  Italians. 

And  so  he  left  Lady  Cannynge  beside  his  mother. 


CHAPTER  XVII 

On  the  night  of  Duchess  Miravanti's  skating  party  Princess 
Mancelli  knew  that  Cesare  loved  Dolores  Cannynge.  She 
could  have  given  no  good  reason  for  her  knowledge,  perhaps  in- 
deed no  reason  at  all.  Months  ago  Montebruno  had  told  her 
that  it  was  so.  She  had  neither  believed  nor  had  she  doubted 
him.  His  statement  had  hardly  affected  her.  She  would  not 
take  a  man's  word  in  such  a  matter.     "  If  it  is  so  I  shall  see 


220  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

for  myself."  Such  had  been  her  thought.  Since  then  two  or 
three  times  she  had  seen  Cesare  with,  or  not  far  from,  Lady 
Cannynge.  They  were  together  at  the  Countess  Boccara's  din- 
ner at  the  Grand  Hotel.  Their  other  meetings  had  been  equally 
fortuitous.  At  the  Grand  Hotel,  when  Schizzi  was  playing, 
the  Princess  had  become  aware  that  Cesare  admired  Lady  Can- 
nynge very  much.  She  had  seen  a  strong  admiration  in  his  eyes. 
But  she  knew  young  Italians  very  well.  A  good  dinner,  a 
glass  or  two  of  champagne,  Schizzi's  way  of  performing,  and 
the  nearest  pretty  and  young  woman  might  surely  —  the  Prin- 
cess had  told  herself  —  have  called  up  that  expression  in  Cesare. 
Who  knew  as  well  as  she  what  responses  to  sensual  influences 
there  were  In  Cesare's  nature?  Perhaps  she  had  been  anxious 
to  trick  herself,  although  she  was  a  woman  not  at  all  given  to 
self-trickery.  But  now  that  she  had  seen  Lady  Cannynge  and 
Cesare  joined  together  in  an  exercise  the  Princess  had  no 
longer  any  doubts.  Had  they  only  made  one  round  of  the 
Duchess's  picture  gallery  she  would  have  been  certain.  Not 
just  like  that  could  Cesare  have  skated  with  any  woman  he 
did  not  love.  Not  just  like  that  could  he  have  held  her  hand, 
not  just  like  that  have  been  on  the  alert  to  respond  to  her 
movements,  to  protect  her  from  any  chance  of  collision,  to  sup- 
port her,  firm  but  not  iron-handed,  if  she  slipped.  There  was 
nothing  in  Cesare's  face  to  tell  the  Princess.  He  had  the  self- 
command  of  the  well-bred,  and  never  shy  Italian.  His  body 
had  told  her,  and  how  she  herself  could  not  have  said.  Monte- 
bruno  had  either  been  right,  or  he  had  somehow  anticipated 
a  coming  fact.  She  knew,  and  probably  she  was  the  only  per- 
son in  all  Rome  who  knew.  For  Montebruno  had  gone  away 
again  to  gamble  at  Monte  Carlo.  And  as  to  Dolores  Cannynge 
—  well,  the  Princess  did  not  feel  sure  of  her  knowledge. 

That  was  absurd  perhaps.  "  A  woman  always  knows  such  a 
thing." 

Nevertheless  —  after  saying  that  to  herself  —  the  Princess 
still  did  not  feel  sure  about  Lady  Cannynge. 

A  woman  docs  not  always  know  such  a  thing.  The  Prin- 
cess was  clever  enough  to  distrust  cliches,  and  to  realize  that 
very  pure  women,  as  if  by  reason  of  their  virtue,  sometimes 
have  to  forego  certain  mental  privileges  supposed  to  belong  to 
the  whole  sex. 

As  she  drove  home  to  the  Palazzo  Urbino  the  Princess  hated 
a  man,  and  that  man  was  Sir  Theodore  Cannynge.  She  had 
not  the  feminine  joy  of  being  able  to  think  him  a  fool,  for 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  221 

she  supposed  him  in  love  with,  and  happy  in  the  company  of, 
Edna  Denzil.  The  little  Boccara,  whose  sudden  jealousy  of  her 
husband  and  Mrs.  Tooms  seemed  to  have  soured  her  whole  na- 
ture, had  abruptly  become  hostile  to  "  the  most  beautiful  person 
in  Rome."  The  petting  Dolores  had  received  at  the  hands 
of  Rome  —  sympathetic  since  the  death  of  Francis  Denzil  — 
and  the  sudden  vigor  and  success  with  which  she  had  responded, 
showing  social  qualities  which  were  decisive,  as  well  as  those 
which  were  merely  graceful  and  charming,  had  quite  changed 
Countess  Boccara's  feelings  towards  her.  She  had  felt  almost 
fond  of  the  Dolores  who  was  really  indifferent  to  social  success. 
But  a  challenging  woman,  a  woman  who  cared  to  succeed, 
would  find  in  her  an  instinctive  enemy. 

Countess  Boccara,  who  heard  of  every  trifle  connected  with 
the  doings  of  society  in  Rome,  and  of  the  people  she  thought 
smart  enough  to  know,  had  discovered  that  since  the  return 
of  Sir  Theodore  from  England  he  motored  out  perpetually  to 
Frascati.  "  Twice  and  three  times  a  day,"  some  one  had  said. 
And  the  Countess  had  sent  this  piece  of  news  on  its  travels 
through  Rome,  with  a  small  addition  of  her  ov/n,  that  Sir 
Theodore  meant  to  spend  the  summer  at  Frascati,  and  was  try- 
ing to  rent  one  of  the  big  villas  with  gardens  there:  "  Why,  no 
one  knows!  "  She  had  spoken  of  it  to  Princess  Mancelli,  who 
had  shown  no  interest,  and  had  merely  replied,  "  Frascati  is 
not  at  all  bad  after  the  middle  of  September,  and  even  in  the 
height  of  summer  it  would  be  quite  bearable  in  Villa  Aldo- 
brandini,  or  Villa  Lancellotti." 

"  I  doubt  if  Dolores  will  like  the  idea,"  the  Countess  had 
said,  with  meaning. 

And  to  this  Princess  Mancelli  had  answered  nothing  at  all. 
She  had  understood  that  for  some  reason  Countess  Boccara  was 
rejoicing  over  the  supposed  humiliation  of  one  whom  she  called 
her  friend,  and  had  felt  a  faint  contempt,  as  she  often  did 
for  certain  feminine  qualities. 

Now  as  she  drove  home  through  the  dark  and  narrow  street 
to  Palazzo  Urbino  she  remembered  Countess  Boccara's  words, 
and  she  hated  Sir  Theodore.  For  she  still  believed  that  Do- 
lores loved  him. 

*'  Always  at  Frascati !  "  What  worse  than  fools  men  were ! 
As  the  carriage  turned  in  at  the  gate  of  the  drive,  and  mounted 
the  short  hill  to  the  arcade  of  the  palace,  the  Princess  felt  the 
hot  blood  stir  round  her  heart.  She  burned  with  the  desire 
to  be  able  to  rule  Sir  Theodore,  to  be  able  to  order  his  goings 


222  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

out  and  his  comings  in.  As  she  got  out  it  seemed  to  her  that 
she  saw  a  traveling  cloud  of  white  dust  moving  swiftly  across  the 
Campagna.  And  it  was  the  companion  of  a  motor  that  was 
rushing  to  Frascati. 

She  went  slowly  up  the  great  staircase,  with  her  gown  trail- 
ing behind  her.  She  was  aware  that  the  sense  and  the  horror 
of  loneliness  had  grown  within  her,  that  to-night  they  were 
almost  unbearable.  Her  heart  sank  as  she  stood  by  the  great 
door  which  led  into  her  apartment,  and  thought  of  the  empty 
rooms  beyond.  "  No  woman  is  meant  to  live  alone,"  she 
thought.     The  door  was  opened  and  she  passed  in. 

"  Cesare  loves  Lady  Cannynge." 

Her  maid,  an  elderly,  corrugated  and  broad-bosomed  Italian, 
who  had  been  with  her  since  she  was  a  child,  and  who  lived 
respectfully,  devotedly,  and  intimately  in  her  life,  took  away 
her  wrap. 

"  In  a  few  minutes,  Nanna  —  Nannina,"  she  said. 

"  Eccellenza,  si !  " 

"  Don't  call  me  Eccellenza  —  to-night,"  the  Princess  ex- 
claimed. 

"Ma——" 

The  Princess  put  her  cheek  against  the  wrinkled  temple  of 
Nanna. 

"  I'll  come  almost  directly,  I  won't  keep  you  up  long." 

Nanna  went  away,  shaking  her  head.  She  had  no  real  moral 
sense  but  that  of  love.  In  her  eyes  her  princess  stood  above  and 
apart  from  all  other  living  creatures.  No  such  thing  as  vice 
could  be  in  her  princess.  She  bitterly  resented  the  defection  of 
the  "  Principino."  And  yet  she  was  thoroughly  respectable, 
very  devout,  and  strictly  moral  in  her  own  behavior.  She  was 
even  extremely  severe  on  any  lapse  among  persons  in  her 
own  class  of  life.  "  People  shouldn't  do  such  things!"  was  a 
favorite  saying,  and  often  on  her  lips.  Personal  devotion 
destroyed  in  her  all  reason.  Love  made  such  havoc  of  pro- 
priety in  Nanna  that  she  had  repeatedly  besieged  the  Ma- 
donna with  prayers  for  the  return  to  her  princess  of  the  "  Prin- 
cipino." 

When  Nanna  was  gone.  Princess  Mancelli  sat  down  on  one 
of  the  immense  sofas  in  the  room  where  she  had  talked  one 
day  with  Dolores.  How  horribly  large  and  lonely  it  seemed 
to-night,  and  how  silent!  And  loneliness  was  before  her  in 
the  long  and  dark  hours  of  the  night.  She  was  sick  at  heart. 
But  something  else  was  sick  within  her  —  her  pride. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  223 

Again  and  again  she  saw  the  two  skaters  pass  before  her. 
She  saw  the  body  of  Cesare  which  in  some  strange  and  subtle 
way  had  told  her  a  dreadful  truth.  She  heard  the  pretty  Bar- 
carolle from  Contes  d'Hoffmann.  To  her  —  for  she  was 
very  Italian  in  most  of  her  tastes  —  it  seemed  expressive  of 
sentiment,  even  of  the  languors  of  genuine  passion.  It  made 
scenes  rise  up  before  her. 

Was  Dolores  Cannynge  une  petite  chattef  The  Prin- 
cess had  wondered.  But  no,  she  did  not  really  believe  it.  It 
was  strange  that  Dolores  almost  attracted  her,  that  when  she 
looked  at  Dolores  she  was  nearly  always  conscious  of  a  feeling 
of  pity,  such  as  one  may  feel  for  a  child  who  is  destined  to 
sorrow.  There  was  something  grotesque  in  the  idea  of  her 
pitying  Dolores  Cannynge.  iWhat  must  be  Dolores  Cannynge's 
feeling  for  her? 

Through  all  these  months  the  Princess  had  been  holding  in 
quiescence  the  turbulent  depths  of  her  nature.  She  had  been 
making  a  powerful  and  continuous  effort.  At  the  end  of  her 
liaison  with  Cesare  Carelli  there  had  been  terrible  scenes.  The 
Princess  had  not  allowed  her  lover  to  go  without  desperate 
efforts  to  keep  him.  Afterwards  she  knew  that  she  had  humbled 
herself  to  the  dust.  But  at  the  time  she  had  acted  instinctively, 
had  given  the  reins  to  her  nature,  had  been  careless  of  every- 
thing before  Cesare.  She  had  been  like  a  mad  creature  and 
she  had  not  scrupled  to  let  him  know  it.  If,  when  he  finally 
left  her,  he  had  gone  to  another  woman,  the  Princess  might 
have  committed  an  act  of  violence.  And  she  knew  it.  But 
he  had  not  done  that.  He  had  simply  chosen  to  resume  his 
complete  freedom.  He  had  realized  that  he  was  in  servitude, 
and  he  had  had  the  cold  strength  to  break  out  of  it.  The 
Princess  and  he  had  measured  their  wills,  and  Cesare's  had 
conquered. 

Since  that  triumph  the  Princess  had  secretly  loved  Cesare 
more  passionately,  and  differently.  She  had  loved  him  as  one 
over  whom  for  years  she  had  dominion,  but  who  now  had  do- 
minion over  her.  She  knew  that  now  she  was  in  soul  Cesare's 
creature,  in  soul  the  creature  of  a  man  who  loved  another 
woman. 

All  these  months  she  had  held  herself  in.  When  the  rup- 
ture was  an  accomplished  fact,  when  she  had  no  more  hope, 
then  she  had  returned  to  herself,  had  summoned  the  pride  she 
had  flung  to  the  winds,  had  tried  to  entrench  herself  in  it. 
She  had  gone  off  alone  to  Switzerland,  had  joined  a  party  of 


224  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

French  friends,  had  kept  herself  well  en  vue.  She  had,  as 
it  were,  run  up  the  flag  to  the  naast-head. 

And  ever  since  she  had  kept  it  flying.  She  had  braved  the 
pity  of  Rome.  And  not  one  woman  had  been  let  into  her  con- 
fidence. Not  one  woman  had  been  allowed  to  see  anything  of 
what  she  was  feeling — ■  unless  it  were  Dolores  on  that  day 
just  before  Pacci  came.  Then,  perhaps,  by  accident,  for  a 
moment  the  Princess  had  shown  a  shadow  of  the  truth,  when 
she  spoke  about  bridge.  But  she  had  doubted  at  the  time,  and 
doubted  now,  whether  Lady  Cannynge  had  thought  anything 
of  it.     All  these  months  she  had  held  herself  in.     But  —  now  ? 

While  she  had  been  standing  with  the  new  Councillor  of  the 
British  Embassy,  and  talking  gaily  about  diplomacy,  she  had 
for  a  moment  envisaged  a  future  in  which  she  might  be  as  she 
had  never  been,  might  act  as  she  had  never  thought  to  act. 
She  envisaged  that  future  now  as  she  sat  alone,  forgetful  of 
Nanna,  who  in  the  big  bedroom  close  by  was  getting  things 
ready  for  the  night,  and  muttering  maledictions  against  the 
"  Principino." 

If  Sir  Theodore  Cannynge  continued  going  to  Frascati,  and 
if  Dolores  Cannynge  changed  —  what  then  ? 

Changed !  Princess  Mancelli,  like  all  women  who  succeed  in 
her  world,  was  a  keen  reader  of  character,  an  instinctive  psy- 
chologist. Her  conclusions  about  people  were  rapidly  come  to 
and  were  seldom  indeed  wrong.  But  Dolores  remained  oddly 
mysterious  to  her.  Perhaps  the  truth  was  that  the  Princess 
was  puzzled,  even  baffled,  by  the  natural  sincerity  and  innocence 
which  belonged  to  Dolores,  and  which  sometimes  had  troubled, 
even  almost  angered  Dolores  herself,  because  they  had  some- 
times made  her  feel  painfully  apart  from  the  world  she  gener- 
ally moved  in.  Nov/  and  then  the  Princess  was  on  the  edge  of 
divining  this  nature,  then  again  she  said  to  herself,  "  It's  im- 
possible. We  women  aren't  like  that,  cannot  remain  like  that, 
in  our  way  of  life."  And  she  feared  to  be  what  she  called 
iouee  by  Dolores.     It  was  so  dangerous  to  believe  in  any  one. 

The  rupture  with  Cesare  had  made  Princess  Mancelli  se- 
cretly uncertain  of  herself,  and  not  only  with  men  but  also  with 
women.  It  had  struck  a  deadly  blow  at  her  self-esteem,  and, 
so,  had  weakened  her.  For  she  was  not  one  to  build  a  temple 
on  the  ruined  foundations  of  a  house  that  had  been  dedicated 
to  secret  pleasures.  She  no  longer  trusted  her  intellect  because 
she  had  ceased  to  trust  her  heart.  How  Cesare's  desertion 
had  weakened  her !     She  wished  she  knew  how  to  hate  him. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  225 

Nanna  looked  round  the  door,  with  the  eyes  of  a  sorceress, 
yet  anxiously.  The  Princess  did  not  hear  her,  but  felt  that 
she  was  there.  Nanna,  and  all  she  would  do,  were  the  prelude 
to  the  long  hours  of  the  lonely  night. 

When  the  Princess  got  up  from  the  sofa,  and  turned  round, 
Nanna  was  quite  alarmed  by  her  pallor,  the  expression  of  misery 
about  her  eyes,  and  the  exhaustion  in  her  movements. 

"Ma  —  donna!"  Nanna  said,  laying  an  almost  terrified 
stress  upon  the  first  syllable. 

She  hurried  fonvard,  with  her  respectful  gait. 

"  Poveretta!  "  she  almost  bleated.     "You  are  too  tired!" 

"  Yes,  Nannina,  I  am  very  tired  to-night,"  said  the  Princess. 
She  longed  to  cry.  But  she  knew  too  well  what  crying  would 
mean  for  her;  a  tempestuous  outburst  in  which  rage  would  be 
mingled  with  sorrow.     And  she  did  not  dare  to  cry. 

"How  I  hate  all  these  parties!  How  I  hate  them!"  she 
said,  when  she  was  in  the  bedroom. 

"  But  it  is  there  you  go  to  take  3'our  pleasure !  "  protested 
Nanna.  "  And  what  would  they  do  in  Rome  without  my 
Principessa?  " 

"  Nobody  wants  me!  Nobody  wants  me!  "  the  Princess  an- 
swered. 

Again  she  saw  the  skaters  pass  by.  The  tears  rushed  into 
her  eyes. 

"  Make  haste,  Nanna!  "  she  said.  "All  these  horrible  silly 
things!" 

She  threw  her  jewels  down  almost  violently  on  the  dress- 
ing-table. 

"  Leave  them  —  put  them  away  to-morrow." 

"Ma  Eccellenza " 

"  To-morrow  —  to-morrow !     Turn  out  the  light,  quickly." 

As  Nanna  went  off  to  her  bed  she  was  in  a  state  of  strong 
agitation.  She  cursed  the  Principino.  Whom  could  he  ever 
find  equal  to  her  Principessa?  She  resolved  to  make  one  last 
attempt  to  soften  the  heart  of  the  Madonna.  Perhaps  she, 
Nanna,  had  not  put  forward  the  sadness  of  her  mistress  with 
sufficient  detail,  sufficient  eloquence.  She  lifted  her  heavily- 
veined  and  big- jointed  hand,  signed  herself,  and  made  a  vow 
to  try  once  more.     One  never  knew! 

In  the  morning  the  Princess  wrote  to  Montebruno  who  was 
staying  in  lodgings  in  Nice. 

The  connection  between  the  Princess  and  Montebruno  was 
a  not  unusual  one  in  Italy,  but  in  one  respect  it  was  exceptional. 


226  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

The  Montebruno  family  were,  It  might  also  be  said,  hered- 
itary friends  of  the  family  of  Torquemara  to  which  the  Prin- 
cess belonged.  For  more  years  than  most  Romans  could  re- 
member Torquemaras  and  Montebrunos  had  stood  by  each  other, 
and  stood  up  for  each  other,  sometimes  against  all  reason,  some- 
times even  against  all  right. 

"They  are  our  friends!"  That  was  considered  by  either 
family  to  be  an  all-sufKcient  reply  to  any  charge,  however  well- 
founded,  against  the  other.  And  individuals  were  covered  by 
a  similar  cloak  of  charity.  The  father  of  the  Princess,  Prince 
Torquemara,  a  man  of  the  strictest  rectitude,  put  his  principles 
in  his  pocket  without  hesitation  for  the  sake  of  a  Montebruno. 
On  one  occasion  Enrico  Montebruno,  a  cousin  of  Giorgio,  the 
Princess's  ally,  who  had  behaved  abominably  in  a  money  mat- 
ter, had  cheated  his  wife's  family,  and  had  been  publicly  ex- 
posed in  a  resounding  processo,  presented  himself  at  Prince 
Torquemara's  palace  when  the  Prince  was  giving  a  luncheon 
party.  All  Rome  had  cut  him  owing  to  his  disgraceful  con- 
duct. But  the  Prince,  as  soon  as  the  name  was  announced, 
ordered  another  place  to  be  laid  at  the  table,  and  received  the 
unexpected  visitor  with  perfect  cordiality.  An  Englishman  of 
high  rank  who  was  present,  a  near  relation  of  Princess  Torque- 
mara, afterwards  ventured  to  express  his  amazement  that  a 
swindler  was  made  welcome  to  Palazza  Torquemara. 

"  We  know  nothing  about  that,"  was  the  Prince's  reply. 
"  He  is  a  Montebruno  and  our  friend." 

Thus  any  Montebruno  was  likely  to  be  a  friend  of  Princess 
Mancelli.  But  there  was  another  reason,  a  more  strange  and 
romantic  one,  for  the  intimacy  between  her  and  this  ruined 
gambler. 

Montebruno,  who  now  looked  as  if  no  gentle  feeling  of 
humanity  could  ever  have  been  housed  In  his  bosom,  had  had  a 
passion  for  Princess  Mancelli.  It  had  been  the  only  passion 
of  his  life  except  the  mania  for  play.  The  Princess  had  not 
returned  it,  and  had  never  permitted  Montebruno  to  hope  for 
any  return.  Although  not  a  woman  of  any  high  moral  sense 
she  was  a  woman  who  knew  how  to  respect  her  own  power  of 
loving.  Apart  from  her  husband  Cesare  Carelli  was  the  only 
man  who  had  been  Intimately  in  her  life.  But  she  had  known 
how  to  keep  Montebruno  by  her  refusal.  Egotist,  cynic,  piti- 
lessly selfish  though  he  was,  and  concentrated  on  that  direst 
and  most  unamlable  of  all  the  vices  —  the  passion  for  gaining 
money  without  giving  anything  in  return  —  he  had  a  hidden 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  227 

shrine.  And  in  it  was  cherished  a  curious  devotion  for  Prin- 
cess Mancelh'.  He  was  the  Princess's  confidante.  He  had 
stood  aside  and,  not  unchivalrously,  had  been  patient  during 
the  years  of  her  love  for  Cesare.  If  he  were  jealous  he  had 
not  shown  it.  When  that  connection  ended  in  disaster  for 
the  Princess,  only  he  had  known  the  despair  and  the  fury  that 
consumed  her.  And  it  was  then,  when  Cesare  left  her,  that 
Montebruno  awoke  to  a  sort  of  slow-burning  hatred  of  Cesare. 
He  did  not  show  it.  He  seldom,  or  never,  showed  any  real 
feeling.  And  Cesare  had  no  suspicion  of  it.  But  it  would  have 
been  a  satisfaction  to  Montebruno  to  kill  in  a  duel  the  man 
who  had  dared  to  break  away  from  Lisetta  IMancelli.  Such  a 
rejection  seemed  to  leave  a  scar  —  was  it  on  his  pride,  or  on 
the  curious,  but  implacable  affection  that  had  succeeded  his 
passion  ? 

The  Princess  relied  on  this  affection  more  than  she  was 
even  aware.  It  was  like  a  cold  rock  to  which  she  could 
cling,  and  which  she  knew  would  never  crumble.  She  trusted 
Montebruno  as  she  trusted  no  other  human  being,  unless 
it  were  perhaps  poor  old  Nanna  with  her  petitions  to  the 
Madonna. 

In  this  friendship  there  were  strange  reciprocities.  Two 
prides  had  melted  in  the  dull  glow  of  its  embers.  By  its  light 
two  passions  had  been  disclosed  in  their  nakedness.  Monte- 
bruno knew  all  that  the  Princess  had  suffered  from  her  love 
for  Cesare.  The  Princess  knew  all  the  misery  brought  upon 
Montebruno  by  his  insatiable  mania  for  the  tables.  So  deep 
did  her  knowledge  penetrate,  so  completely  had  Montebruno's 
jJride  melted,  that  one  rumor  at  least  of  Rome  was  true. 
Princess  Mancelli  had  on  more  than  one  occasion  paid  up 
Montebruno's  losses.  There  was  surely  little  more  that  either 
could  do  for  the  other  in  proof  of  friendship!  Each  had  given 
the  sacred  hostage  of  degradation,  the  Princess  when  she  let 
Montebruno  look  upon  her  as  she  lay  humbled  in  the  very  dust, 
Montebruno  when  he  permitted  a  woman  to  fill  the  purse  that 
was  empt)'-. 

The  link  between  these  two  personalities  was  strong.  It 
had  been  tempered  by  misery  and  tested  by  shame.  And  it  had 
become  much  stronger  since  the  Princess  had  been  encompassed 
by  loneliness.  Montebruno  knew  that  he  was  a  slave.  Since 
the  Princess's  rupture  with  Cesare  he  knew  that  she,  too,  was 
a  slave.  She  had  entered  his  community.  He  was  a  clever 
man.     He   was  even    a   decidedly   intellectual   man.     But    for 


228  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

his  vice  he  might  have  been  of  value  to  his  country.  But  his 
vice  vi^as  withering  his  mind  as  a  disease  withers  a  body.  He 
was  becoming  like  a  sapless  leaf.  All  the  energies  of  his  life 
were  concentrated  upon  one  thing,  and  when  by  circumstances 
he  was  separated  from  that  thing  a  sort  of  relapse,  that  almost 
resembled  a  dying,  took  place  within  him.  Apart  from  gam- 
bling only  in  relation  to  the  affairs  of  Princess  Mancelli  did 
he  show  any  vital  interest,  any  determination  and  strong  ac- 
tivity. At  her  call  there  resounded  within  this  hollow  cavern 
of  a  soul  an  answer.  To  the  summons  of  any  other  there  was 
no  reply,  except  the  deep  silence  which  is  less  human  than 
refusal. 

At  Nice,  in  his  uncomfortable  lodgings,  Montebruno  re- 
ceived the  letter  in  which  the  Princess  told  him  that  he  had 
been  right,  that  Cesare  loved  Lady  Cannynge. 

It  was  a  long  letter,  an  outpouring  from  one  who  had  no 
other  confidante.  While  the  Princess  had  been  writing  it 
Nanna  had  been  on  her  knees  before  a  certain  Madonna  in  the 
Church  of  the  Gesii.  So,  in  their  different  ways,  two  women 
looked  to  Providence. 

Montebruno,  in  a  dirty  old  dressing-gown,  sitting  near  the 
window  which  looked  into  a  back  street  of  Nice,  read  carefully 
every  word  of  the  Princess.  She  had  a  habit  of  joining  words 
and  letters  one  to  another  by  lines,  which  resembled  the  cross- 
ing of  t's  prolonged.  This  made  her  writing  look  unusually 
symmetrical  and  strongly  characteristic,  but  difficult  to  read. 
The  sun  was  shining,  but  Montebruno  had  to  get  his  eyeglasses 
before  he  could  make  out  all  that  she  had  put  down  on  the  gray, 
crinkly  paper,  with  the  little  coronet  in  gold,  and  the  mono- 
gram L.  M.  at  the  top.  As  he  sat  there,  without  a  collar,  and 
with  his  lean  and  yellow  neck  exposed,  he  was  more  like  a 
weary  bloodhound  than  even  when  he  had  sat  at  Countess 
Boccara's  dinner-table.  In  his  long-nailed  fingers,  which  were 
dried  up  and  thin,  and  which  looked  predatory,  he  held  the  pa- 
per high.  Slowly  he  turned  the  sheet.  His  tall  forehead  was 
alive  with  shifting  lines,  although  he  was  not  talking.  The 
big  lobes  of  his  large  and  pendulous  ears  showed  almost  trans- 
parent as  the  sun  fell  on  them.  He  moved  his  lips  with  a 
faint,  munching  sound.  Very  much  alone  he  looked,  as  no 
human  being  can  ever  look  when  there  is  another  within  his 
view.  His  strained  and  bloodshot  eyes  had  a  piteous  and  yet 
a  ruthless  expression  as  he  read  and  reread  the  long  letter. 

On  a  table  near  his  tumbled  bed  stood  his  black  coffee  get- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  229 

ting  cold,  with  a  liqueur  glass  full  of  brandy  beside  it.  At  last 
he  remembered,  emptied  the  contents  of  the  glass  into  the  cup, 
and  sipped.  He  made  an  ugly  face  as  the  tepid  mixture  touched 
his  mouth,  drawing  back  his  flexible  lips,  and  showing  his  long 
yellow  teeth.  By  nature  he  was  an  epicure.  Only  his  domi- 
nating vice  induced  him  to  live  in  such  lodgings,  to  drink  such 
coffee.  (The  brandy  was  his  own  and  was  good.)  He  had 
not  even  a  valet.  Presently  he  laid  the  letter  down,  pulled 
the  gray  and  blue  striped  dressing-gown,  which  had  fallen  open, 
mechanically  about  him,  held  it  tightly,  and  sat  there  in  the 
sunshine,  with  the  lines  darting  about  in  his  forehead  and  his 
eyes  staring  at  the  floor. 

Lisetta  had  helped  him  with  money  to  Indulge  in  his  vice. 
How  was  he  going  to  help  her  ? 

Certainly  not  by  praying  to  the  Madonna.  Montebruno 
had  no  belief  in  a  merciful  God  or  a  future  life.  He  did  not 
even  desire  to  believe  in  either.  He  was  interested  in  scien- 
tific progress,  so  far  as  he  could  be  interested  in  anything  that 
was  not  gambling.  But  he  saw  no  reason  in  man  for  a  future 
existence.  For  humanity  he  had  a  great  contempt.  Even  in 
his  love  he  had  not  discovered  a  need  of  religion,  or  a  thirst  for 
something  beyond  the  woman  he  had  loved. 

In  her  letter,  which  was  a  veritable  outpouring  —  almost 
the  equivalent  of  those  tears  in  which  she  had  not  indulged  — 
the  Princess  had  exposed  the  raw  of  her  soul.  She  could  never 
forgive,  though  she  might  adore,  Cesare  for  abandoning  her. 
But  if  the  break  between  them  was  followed  by  his  entering 
into  some  suitable  engagement  with  a  young  girl,  who  was  in  a 
good  position,  and  had  a  copious  dot,  her  pride  would  be  at 
least  partially  safeguarded.  In  time,  with  her  influence,  and 
her  self-possessed  cleverness,  she  would  be  able  to  create  and 
diffuse  the  legend  that  she  had  "  made  Cesare  marry."  In 
time,  if  that  were  to  happen,  an  impression  might  follow,  and 
grow  up,  that  she  had  done  this  because  she  had  got  tired  of 
Cesare.  Her  ever-smarting  pride  longed  desperately  for  as- 
suagement, though  it  showed  no  trace  of  its  gaping  wound  ex- 
cept to  Montebruno.  And  what  she  had  seen  at  Duchess 
Miravanti's  had  terrified  her  pride. 

"  If  Cesare  marry  I  can  bear  it,"  she  wrote.  "  But  if  — 
I  can't  bear  that.  I  should  be  the  laughing  stock  of  Rome. 
Everybody  expects  him  to  marry,  thinks  he  meant  to  marry.  I 
feel  it,  I  know  it.     Nobody  says  anything  to  me,  but  it  is  in 


230  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

the  air.  His  horrible  mother  of  course  says  he  has  no  thought 
of  marrying.  But  that  means  nothing.  She  and  his  father 
are  both  longing  for  him  to  take  a  wife.  You  know  her  so 
well.  Can't  it  be  managed?  Can't  you  do  anything?  Oh, 
Giorgio,  I  will  not  endure  that  it  should  be  known  in  Rome 
that  he  left  me  for  another  irregular  relation.  That  would 
simply  prove  to  everybody  that  he  threw  me  away,  got  rid  of 
me  —  of  Lisetta  Mancelli!  —  that  he  had  no  desire  to  marry, 
but  that  he  was  sick  and  tired  of  me.  If  he  marries  I  can  still 
save  the  situation.  He  must  marry.  He  must.  I  have  not 
slept  all  night.  By  the  way,  when  he  had  finished  skating  with 
her,  he  left  her  beside  his  mother.  What  do  you  think  of  that? 
For  a  moment  it  almost  made  me  fancy  that  perhaps  he  didn't 
really  —  but  it's  no  use.  When  a  woman  knows  a  thing  of 
that  kind  it  is  so.  She  is  developing  amazingly.  But  I  cannot 
understand  her.  My  instinct  tells  me  she  is  a  good  little  thing. 
Unfortunately  she  is  interesting,  too.  How  rare  that  combi- 
nation is!  So  rare  that  perhaps  I  am  wrong  and  she  is  really 
une  petite  chatte.  I  have  thought  of  that,  too.  She  puzzles  me. 
People  in  Rome  are  beginning  to  say  she  is  "  an  odd  sort  of 
woman."  But  I  think  she  is  more  admired  than  before.  La 
petite  jalouse  est  tout  bonnement  furieuse!  Tell  me  what  can 
be  done,  what  you  can  do.  Or,  better  still,  come  to  Rome. 
Cannot  you  leave  your  demon  for  two  or  three  days  to  help  me 
with  mine?  You  know  Baronessa  Vitragli,  the  Bostonian. 
She  had  a  reception  to  which  I  went  two  nights  ago  to  meet  a 
Buddhist  monk.  He  gave  a  lecture  on  the  joys  of  Nirvana. 
And  what  do  you  think  his  definition  of  Nirvana  was?  *  Nir- 
vana means  the  extinction  of  individual  emotion,  thought,  sen- 
sation,—  the  annihilation  of  everything  that  can  be  included 
under  the  term  "  I,"  the  final  disintegration  of  conscious  per- 
sonality.' 

*'  What  a  joy  to  seek  after!     Gran  Diof 

"  Her  husband  is  forever  at  Frascati.  You  know  why.  And 
can  you  believe  it  ?  —  that  poor  Denzil  —  so  everj'body  Is  be- 
ginning to  say  —  actually  left  the  children  to  his  care,  as  guard- 
ian.    Are  not  the  English  impayable? 

"  Giorgio,  can  you  —  can  you  come  ? — Lisetta." 

And  that  night,  but  only  after  a  long  struggle  with  himself, 
Montebruno  forsook  his  demon,  left  the  dingy  lodgings  in  the 
back  street  of  Nice,  and  started  in  the  express  for  Rome. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  231 


CHAPTER  XVIII 

The  shock  of  her  husband's  death  changed  Edna  Denzil.  One 
part  of  her  nature,  the  mother-part,  it  deepened,  made  richer, 
finer,  warmer  than  it  had  been  before.  Her  tenderness,  her 
love  for  her  children  increased,  became  a  passion,  now  that  the 
care  of  a  father  was  snatched  forever  from  them.  The  power 
of  devotion  in  her  which  had  been  dispersed,  which  had  done 
so  much  work  in  the  world  quietly  for  her  Franzi,  as  well  as 
in  the  home  for  her  children,  was  now  almost  fiercely  concen- 
trated. She  was  the  mother-bird  with  outstretched  wings 
brooding  over  the  nest  in  which  were  her  3^oung  ones.  But 
no  woman  is  all  mother.  The  Edna  Denzil  the  Roman  world 
had  known  and  been  charmed  by  was  not  softened,  not  im- 
proved by  suffering.  She  was  even,  perhaps,  a  little  warped. 
And  yet  the  change  was  not  unnatural,  was  almost  inevitable. 
She  had  been  an  exceptional  woman,  exceptionally  sweet-tem- 
pered, free  from  all  jealousies,  from  feminine  pettinesses,  and 
feminine  arts  of  attack  and  defense.  But  she  had  been  excep- 
tionally happy.  And  she  had  always  been  conscious  of  wearing 
the  protective  armor  in  which  a  strong  man's  complete  love 
clothes  the  woman  he  loves.  For  years  she  had  envied  no 
woman.  Possessed  of  a  nature  which  clung  instinctively  to 
the  essential  things  of  life,  she  cared  nothing  for  life's  trap- 
pings, and  was  incapable  of  the  small  jealousies  of  women, 
jealousies  connected  with  money  matters,  clothes,  good  looks, 
worldly  success,  men.  But  she  was  capable  of  envy,  and  now 
that  Denzil  was  dead  she  knew  it.  Bitterly,  fiercely,  she  en- 
vied every  woman  who  had  at  her  side  a  strong  man  to  love 
and  protect  her.  In  the  deep  waters  of  her  soul  strange  weeds 
floated  up  and  showed  themselves  sometimes  like  shadows. 

The  change  in  Edna  Denzil  was  sharply  traced  in  the  trans- 
formation of  her  feeling  towards  Dolores.  One  thing  she  had 
to  forgive  her  Franzi,  the  keeping  from  her  of  the  knowledge 
of  his  fatal  illness  until  the  eve  of  the  operation.  She  forgave 
him.  But  she  could  not  forgive  Dolores  for  having  known  of 
it  before  she  did,  for  having  prepared  everything  for  the  ill 
man's  comfort  while  she,  his  wife,  did  not  know  he  was  ill,  for 
having  consulted  with  doctor  and  nurse,  discussed  possibili- 
ties, hopes,  fears,  while  she,  in  blank  ignorance,  concerned  her- 
self with  the  preparations  for  a  children's  party.  So  long  as 
Franzi  was   alive   the  whole  matter  seemed   subtly   different. 


232  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

And  she  could  bear  it.  She  could  write  that  note  thanking 
Dolores,  could  allow  Dolores  to  kiss  her,  could  be  moved  by 
her  kiss.  If  Franzi  had  recovered  from  the  operation  she  could 
have  borne  it.  But  when  the  coffin  containing  his  body  went 
down  into  the  pit  beneath  the  cypress  trees  her  heart  cried,  "  I 
can't  bear  it !  "  Under  her  veil  she  looked  across  the  open 
grave  at  Dolores,  and  she  felt  as  if  she  hated  her.  She  was 
shocked  at  herself,  condemned  herself,  almost  hated  herself  for 
the  feeling.  She  fought  with  it,  but  she  did  not  overcome  it 
entirely.  There  remained  with  her  a  dreadful  distaste  for 
Dolores, 

That  distaste  threw  a  shadow  upon  the  life  of  Dolores. 
From  distant  Frascati  far  across  the  Campagna  it  fell,  and  lay 
upon  a  palace  in  Rome. 

Immediately  after  the  death  of  her  husband  Mrs.  Denzil  and 
her  children  left  the  flat  in  the  Via  Venti  Settembre,  the  home 
of  the  happy  days,  and  removed  to  Frascati.  The  noise  and 
the  bustle  of  a  city  had  become  terrible  to  the  widow.  Sounds 
that  had  hitherto  fallen  cheerfully  upon  her  ears  were  now 
hideous  to  them.  The  shock  she  had  undergone  had  affected 
her  body  as  well  as  her  mind,  and  for  a  long  while  —  so  she 
afterwards  believed  —  she  was  not  physically  normal. 

She  fled  across  the  Campagna.  Always  afterwards  that  re- 
moval remained  in  her  memory  as  a  flight  from  a  city  that  had 
changed,  from  a  dreadful  city.  Between  her  and  it  she  put 
the  great  plain  that  was  almost  like  a  stricken  sea  dividing  her 
from  a  lost  happiness. 

Mrs.  Massingham,  Edna's  widowed  mother,  had  for  some 
time  been  established  in  Frascati  in  a  comfortable  pension  — 
she  liked  pensions  —  looking  towards  Rome.  But  she  now 
hastened  to  move  into  an  apartment  big  enough  to  contain  her, 
her  daughter  and  grandchildren.  She  selected  the  upper  part 
of  a  house  in  the  Viale  Giuseppe  Ponzi  as  the  new  home. 

This  viale  is  reached  by  a  flight  of  steps  descending  at  the 
left  of  the  broad  tree-shaded  walk  which  runs  parallel  to  the 
road  by  which  carriages  gain  the  Piazza  Romana.  It  is  quiet, 
almost  deserted  in  appearance,  and  consists  of  a  broad  terrace 
with  two  or  three  houses  on  the  right.  On  the  left  the  ground 
drops  sharply  beyond  a  wall  to  the  open  space  before  the  small 
railway  station.  The  terrace  turns  at  right  angles,  and  is  hid- 
den behind  a  gaunt  "and  ugly  "  Magazzino  di  Carbone,"  which 
is  the  last  house  in  the  row.  Beyond  the  end  of  the  terrace 
looms  up  a  great  yellow  building  with  a  tower,  cutting  the  view 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  233 

from  that  point.  But  Mrs.  Massingham,  though  not  specially 
enamored  of  nature,  had  —  because  rooms  were  sufficiently  spa- 
cious, and  not  too  expensive  —  selected  an  abode  from  the  win- 
dows of  which  a  great  prospect  was  to  be  seen.  The  upper  part 
of  the  house,  which  now  belonged  to  her  and  her  daughter,  was 
composed  of  two  stories.  The  rooms  in  the  top  story  opened  on 
to  a  terrace,  or  hanging  garden,  which  was  the  roof  of  a  large 
loggia  with  pillars  below.  This  loggia,  the  walls  and  ceiling 
of  which  were  tinted  a  deep  red,  was  closed  in  at  the  two  ends 
by  towers  containing  rooms.  Other  chambers  opened  by  French 
windows  into  the  loggia,  which  was  arranged  as  a  sort  of  family 
and  general  sitting-room.  Here,  when  the  weather  was  not  too 
cold,  the  children  could  play.  Here  Edna  Denzil  could  work, 
attend  to  her  business,  or  sit  looking  out  over  the  Campagna 
towards  that  Rome  which  had  seen  her  great  happiness  and  the 
end  of  it.  And  here,  too,  Mrs.  Massingham  could  read  light 
literature,  embroider,  play  patience,  sing  stornelli  and  May 
songs  to  the  grandchildren,  or  talk  to  them,  the  servants,  or  any 
visitors  who  sought  her  out  in  what  she  called  her  casa  di  Cam- 
pagna. At  first  she  missed  the  pension,  where  she  had  encoun- 
tered a  good  many  forestieri  who  had  sometimes  amused  her. 
But  she  was  soon  taken  thoroughly  by  the  new  domesticity.  She 
learnt,  as  good  grandmothers  learn  without  difficulty,  to  con- 
centrate on  her  little  descendants.  Women  love  to  be  needed. 
Mrs.  Massingham  had  the  joy  of  presently  realizing  that 
"  Nonna  "  could  still  be  of  some  use  in  the  world,  was  some- 
times wanted,  filled  a  special  place,  and  was  even  of  importance. 
Warmly  she  threw  herself  into  the  task  of  qualifying  as  a  first- 
class  necessity. 

Mrs.  Massingham  w^as  not  a  remarkable  woman,  but  she 
was  a  woman  who  had  always  been  liked,  had  had  warm  friends, 
and  deserved  them  by  her  kindness  and  open  nature.  She  be- 
longed to  a  good  Old  family  of  Lombardy,  the  family  of  Villa- 
ferato,  who  had  a  seat  near  Varese,  and  a  house  in  Milan.  But 
her  dot  had  not  been  a  large  one  when  she  married  Henry 
Massingham,  and  his  English  estate  and  most  of  his  money  had 
gone  to  a  son  of  his  by  a  former  wife.  On  his  death  his  widow 
had  returned  at  once  to  her  native  land.  She  was  rather  bron- 
chial, and  thought  herself  far  more  bronchial  than  she  was. 
The  climate  of  England,  therefore,  made  no  strong  appeal  to 
her.  And  when  Denzil  was  given  the  post  of  Councillor  to 
the  British  Embassy  she  had  removed  from  Cadenabbia,  where 
she  had  been  living,  to  Frascati.     Rome  made  her  feel  blood- 


234  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

less,  she  always  declared.  Otherwise  she  would  have  settled 
there.  Frascati  had  good  air,  and  its  prices  were  much  smaller 
than  those  of  Rome.  Mrs.  Massingham,  therefore,  had  made 
the  best  of  things  on  the  hill  above  the  Campagna.  And  now 
she  had  her  reward.  At  a  critical  moment,  a  moment  of  trag- 
edy and  sorrow,  four  human  beings  fled  to  her.  She  rose  to 
the  task  and  occasion. 

In  appearance  she  was  not  unlike  a  handsome  owl  of  the 
brown  species.  She  had  a  rather  round  face,  thick  brown  eye- 
brows which  arched  themselves  over  round  and  yellow  brown 
eyes,  a  short  nose,  small  full-lipped  mouth,  and  round,  com- 
fortable looking  chin.  She  appeared  to  possess  a  great  deal  of 
hair,  brown  in  color  with  a  few  fleeting  suggestions  of  gray 
here  and  there,  and  she  wore  it  in  such  a  way  as  to  make  her 
head  look  large  and  round.  Her  hands  were  beautiful,  and 
she  had  known  that  they  were  ever  since  she  had  known  any- 
thing. She  had  an  agreeable,  slightly  muffled  voice,  and  a  habit 
of  blinking  and  of  suddenly  enlarging  her  eyes  when  she  was 
talking.  What  her  age  was  she  did  not  happen  to  mention  to 
any  living  person.  She  looked  not  more  than  sixty,  and  was 
growing  stout.  But  this  fact  did  not  detract  from  her  charm 
and  rather  added  to  her  dignity,  for  she  bore  herself  as  one  who 
deliberately  intended  not  to  remain  slight,  considering  such  a 
condition  of  body  as  wholly  unsuitable  to  a  gentlewoman  of 
middle  age.     She  was  singularly  unlike  her  daughter  Edna. 

Having  abandoned  the  joys  of  the  pension,  and  taken  to  a 
new  way  of  life,  Mrs.  Massingham  set  herself  to  make  a  suc- 
cess of  it.  She  showed  unwonted  energy  in  getting  things  into 
order  and  making  the  most  of  the  accommodation  at  the  dis- 
posal of  herself  and  the  Denzils.  The  death  of  her  son-in-law 
had  surprised  and  shocked  her  very  much.  She  had  been  very 
fond  of  Francis.  But  either  she  was  a  philosopher,  or  else  she 
had  known  enough  of  the  chances  of  life  to  be  prepared  for  any 
event.  For  she  showed  in  this  painful  time  a  complete  self- 
possession,  and  a  sort  of  soft  resignation,  which  were  no  doubt 
of  help  to  her  daughter,  but  which  nevertheless  made  Edna 
feel  that  she  could  never  let  her  mother  know  what  havoc  grief 
works  in  strong  natures. 

"  Mamma  wouldn't  understand." 

Edna  said  this  to  the  only  person  who,  she  felt,  indeed  she 
knew,  could  understand,  to  Franzi's  friend  of  friends,  Sir  Theo- 
dore. She  bore  no  ill-will  to  Sir  Theodore  because  he  had 
known  from  the  first  of  Franzi's  condition.     Mysterious  sex 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  235 

spoke  in  her,  and  proclaimed  that  fact  natural.  Of  course 
Franzi  told  his  greatest  chum.  Of  course  the  two  men  con- 
sulted together  about  her,  the  woman.  Nor  did  Edna  Denzil 
ever  think  of  visiting  upon  Sir  Theodore  her  secret  jealousy  — 
for  it  came  to  that  —  at  the  thought  of  her  days  of  ignorance, 
Dolores'  days  of  knowledge.  Yet  Sir  Theodore  had  told  Dolo- 
res. She  blamed  no  one,  but  she  could  not  endure  the  thought 
of  Dolores  having  known,  and  she  could  endure  the  thought 
of  Sir  Theodore's  having  known.  And  after  her  husband's 
death,  side  by  side  with  the  dawning  of  her  deep  distaste  for 
Dolores,  there  grew  in  her  a  much  deeper  regard  for  Sir  Theo- 
dore than  she  had  ever  felt  before. 

Their  actions  seemed  to  prove  her  right,  not  that  she  cared 
about  that  consciously  one  way  or  the  other.  Edna  was  very 
much  a  woman  and  knew  how  to  be  unreasonable.  And  she 
did  not  see  how  her  different  mental  attitudes  towards  the  hus- 
band and  wife  would  be  likely  to  affect  their  mental  attitudes 
towards  her.  When  the  funeral  was  over,  and  the  Denzils 
removed  to  Frascati,  Dolores  was  the  first  woman  friend  to 
drive  out  from  Rome  and  call  upon  them.  She  was  received. 
It  chanced  that  little  Theo  met  her  at  the  door.  She  sat  with 
Edna  and  Mrs.  Massingham  in  the  confusion  of  the  not  yet 
arranged  loggia.  She  felt  genuinely  full  of  deep  sympathy,  and 
held  two  sorrows,  her  sorrow  for  Edna,  her  prophetic  sorrow 
for  one  not  Edna.  She  tried  to  be  natural,  simple,  to  show 
what  she  felt.  But  almost  instantly  she  knew  that  would  be 
impossible.  Edna  would  not  have  it  so.  The  woman  Dolores 
had  kissed,  had  heard  whispering  against  her  shoulder,  the 
woman  who  had  written  the  note  she  herself  could  never  have 
v/ritten,  was  no  longer  there.  Instead  there  was  surely  the 
woman  Dolores  could,  nay,  must  have  been,  had  her  circum- 
stances been  as  Edna's  were.  Dolores  understood  that  woman. 
As  she  sat  with  her  trying  to  talk  gently,  naturally,  trying 
hard  to  be  her  best  self,  she  was  hideously  conscious  of  irrev- 
ocable things.  The  weeds  in  the  deep  waters!  The  weeds 
in  the  deep  dark  waters!  Like  shadows  she  saw  them  ris- 
ing  and   withdrawing.     "  And   mine !  "   she   thought.     **  And 


mme 


Mrs.  Massingham,  blinking  and  then  enlarging  her  hand- 
some eyes,  earnestly  thanked  her  for  all  that  she  had  done, 
twisting  and  turning  the  sword  round  in  her  daughter's  wound. 
And  a  sort  of  darkness  came  into  the  white  cheeks  of  Dolores. 
She  was  conscious  of  a  kind  of  despair  and  a  kind  of  heavy  anger. 


236  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Never  would  she  forget  the  aspect  of  the  loggia  on  that  day,  a 
warm,  still,  but  melancholy  day,  cloudy  and  gray  and  full  of 
presage.  Some  brown  basket-work  chairs  stood  about.  These 
were  covered  with  dull  red  cushions.  Some  pots  with  plants 
were  ranged  In  a  row  not  far  from  an  angle.  They  were  to 
*'  go  somewhere "  presently.  Meanwhile  they  were  in  dan- 
gerous proximity  to  a  French  window.  Dolores  was  sure  some- 
one would  open  that  window  brusquely  and  do  damage  to  the 
pots.  And  so  indeed  it  happened.  An  Italian  housemaid  sud- 
denly pushed  the  window  with  violence  outwards.  Two  pots 
fell  over  and  one  was  smashed  to  pieces.  Mrs,  Massingham, 
in  her  pleasant,  muffled  voice,  protested,  while  Dolores  looked 
away  over  the  gray  Campagna.  Rome  was  but  a  blur  in  the 
far  distance,  most  of  it  cut  off  from  her  sight  by  the  yellow 
tower.  From  the  blur,  near  a  trail  of  white  smoke,  two  or 
three  livid  blotches  stood  out.  She  wondered  what  they  were, 
trying  to  distract  her  mind,  in  which  arose  a  sense  of  unreason- 
ing misery  because  what  she  had  foreseen  had  occurred  w^ith  the 
window  and  the  pots. 

How  could  Edna  Denzil  bear  the  burden?  How  could  she 
confront  life,  with  its  arrangements  of  straw  chairs  with  red 
cushions,  its  plants  in  pots  to  be  put  here  or  there,  with  its  end- 
less succession  of  meals,  with  its  gray  days?  And  oh!  to  gaze 
out  over  that  Campagna  to  the  blur  which  had  been  the  city  of 
happiness!  A  sob  struggled  up  in  Dolores'  long  throat.  But 
it  was  for  herself,  perhaps,  as  much  as  for  Edna  Denzil. 

She  felt  as  if  Edna  Denzil  were  hating  her  and  steadily  try- 
ing not  to.  When  she  got  up  to  go  she  wanted  to  kiss  Edna. 
It  would  be  the  natural  thing  to  do  now,  after  all  that  had 
been.  But  she  could  not.  Her  body  stiffened  at  the  mere 
thought,  and  her  soul  seemed  to  stiffen  too. 

Afterwards  she  had  thought,  "  If  I  had  kissed  Edna  what 
would  Edna  have  done?" 

Mrs.  Massingham  warmly  embraced  Dolores,  and  said: 

"  You  dear  pretty  creature !  Come  again.  In  a  motor  it  is 
nothing." 

She  enlarged  her  eyes,  blinked  and  added: 

"  I  shall  look  out  for  you  from  here.  It  is  such  an  advan- 
tage being  where  we  can  see  every  arrival  from  Rome.  The 
sight  of  a  little  life  is  good,  even  if  one  doesn't  take  part  in  it." 

And  she  pointed  with  her  small  and  beautiful  hand  to  the 
avenue  leading  from  the  Campagna  up  the  hill  in  front  of  the 
Grand  Hotel,  which  was  full  in  view  of  the  loggia  across  a 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  237 

depression  of  waste  ground  planted  with  trees  and  shrubs  be- 
yond the  station. 

"  I  shall  like  to  hear  your  motor  purring  like  a  great  cat,  my 
dear!  "  she  concluded,  pushing  up  her  big,  round  head,  to  give 
another  kiss  to  Dolores. 

And  often  since  then  she  had  heard  the  purr  of  the  motor, 
but  Dolores  was  not  in  it,  and  the  children  greeted  it  with  cries 
of  "Here's  Uncle  Theo!" 

Princess  Mancelli  had  said  that  Dolores  was  not  by  nature  a 
fighter.  Perhaps  that  was  true.  Certainly  she  felt  that  she 
could  not  fight  to  win  a  place  in  the  Denzil  family.  Even  the 
children,  she  thought,  disliked  her,  were  not  really  at  their  ease 
with  her,  except  Iris,  when  she  sat  down  to  the  piano.  As  she 
drove  away  that  afternoon,  descending  the  hill  into  the  vast 
gray  Campagna,  she  knew  that  she  would  not  often  return  to 
the  red-wallcd  loggia.  "  I've  done  my  best!  "  she  said  to  her- 
self, "  I've  done  my  best.  And  now  Edna  hates  me."  And 
it  was  then  that  she  decided  to  take  her  social  life  up  again  with 
determination,  to  throw  herself  into  its  energies  and  to  succeed 
at  least  in  them.  She  felt  like  one  expelled.  It  was  perhaps 
very  absurd  of  her.  But  she  was  intensely  sensitive.  If  she 
made  an  advance  and  was  tacitly  repulsed  she  felt  physically 
miserable,  and  as  if  a  rude  hand  had  shot  out  and  thrust  her 
away.  That  afternoon  in  the  Campagna  she  was  beset  by  a 
sensation  of  having  been  humiliated.  "Why  did  I  go?  Why 
did  I  go?  "  she  asked  herself  almost  fiercely.  But  then  she  re- 
called Edna's  situation,  her  sorrow,  and  the  anger  died  away. 
She  looked  out  of  the  open  window,  and  saw  the  flocks  of  sheep 
closely  gathered  together,  life  clinging  to  life  in  the  vast  expanse 
of  loneliness,  where  the  Power  outside  our  world  seemed  to 
brood  as  it  does  in  the  desert;  she  heard  the  call  of  a  shepherd, 
•savage  and  melancholy,  with  a  lingering,  downward  cadence, 
and  she  had  a  desire  for  release.  "  Oh,  to  be  out  of  it  all!  " 
But  —  where?  And  the  motor  rushed  towards  the  domes  and 
the  towers  of  Rome,  carrying  her  back  to  the  social  life. 

She  hurried  into  it  again,  before  Sir  Theodore  returned  from 
London.  When  he  did  return  he  found  the  writing-table  in 
the  green  and  red  drawing-room  covered  with  cards  of  invita- 
tion, and  heard  from  his  wife  that  she  had  been  dining  with 
Countess  Boccara,  and  had  already  many  engagements.  He 
was  amazed.  Still  haunted  by  the  tragedy  of  the  operation  and 
his  friend's  death,  it  seemed  to  him  almost  incredible  that  Dolo- 
res should  already  have  taken  up  again  the  empty  life  of  frivol- 


238  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

fty.  But  he  did  not  express  his  surprise,  and  another  feeling, 
his  disgust.  Yes,  he  was  disgusted.  For  this  readiness  for 
pleasure  on  Dolores'  part,  following  so  swiftly  on  the  heels  of 
her  apparent  deep  sympathy,  even  of  her  restless  anxiety  and 
grief,  which  had  seemed  almost  to  mount  to  terror  when  Den- 
zil  had  died,  surely  showed  her  to  possess  a  nature  incurably 
shallow  and  changeable.  "  And  if  I  were  to  die  ?  "  her  hus- 
band thought.  And  again  there  came  upon  him  the  helpless 
and  humiliating  feeling  that  he  did  not  yet  know  his  wife. 
Since  when  had  he  begun  to  feel  actively  that  he  did  not  know 
her?  If  he  had  searched  back  —  but  this  he  did  not  do  —  he 
might  have  discovered  that  the  birth  of  this  conscious  ignorance 
dated  after  the  evening  of  his  outburst  concerning  his  wife's  bar- 
renness. Upon  that  evening  the  silence  had  closed  upon  them 
both  like  a  cloud,  and  in  the  womb  of  that  silence  had  been 
conceived  his  feeling.  It  began  to  torment  him,  and  to  render 
him  often  ill  at  ease  in  Dolores'  company.  His  instant  and  ex- 
pressed decision  neither  to  go  out,  nor  to  entertain  any  more 
that  season,  was  expected  by  Dolores.  Yet  it  fell  upon  her  like 
a  rebuke.  She  tried  to  harden  her  heart  and  set  her  lips  tightly 
together. 

"  I  shall  have  a  lot  to  do  now,"  Sir  Theodore  concluded. 
*'  But  anyhow  I  haven't  the  heart  for  going  into  society." 

He  nearly  added,  "And  have  you  —  really  —  Doloretta?" 

If  he  had  said  that,  taken  Dolores  in  his  arms,  let  her  see  his 
surprise,  his  grief,  but  also  some  belief  that  in  her  heart  there 
was  something  responsive  to  his,  she  might,  in  her  then  condi- 
tion of  almost  quivering  sensitiveness  and  longing,  have  cast 
pride  away,  and  flooded  him  with  the  truth.  But  he  said  noth- 
ing more.  He  let  the  moment  pass,  deceived  by  a  physical  de- 
tail, the  tight  line  her  lips  made  just  then. 

And  from  that  day  both  of  them  began  to  strive  to  gather  In 
a  harvest  from  life.  But  while  Dolores  set  herself  to  the  reap- 
ing of  tares,  her  husband  went  into  fields  where  there  was 
wheat  to  be  gathered.  And  so  It  was  that  Edna  Denzil  pres- 
ently was  able  to  say  to  herself,  "  I  am  right !  "  both  in  respect 
of  her  distaste  for  Dolores  and  of  her  greater  affection  for  Sir 
Theodore. 

Day  after  day  a  big  motor  came  out  from  Rome  by  the  Porta 
Furba  and  spun  along  the  flat  road  towards  the  little  town  on 
the  hill,  with  its  blunt-headed  olive  trees  and  its  vineyards  about 
it,  and  the  Campagna  breezes  dancing  in  its  face.  A  new  life 
began  for  Sir  Theodore  with  the  death  of  his  friend,  just  as  a 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  239 

new  life  began  for  Mrs.  Massingham.     As  always  out  of  the 
dust  of  death  blossomed  the  flower  of  life. 

Sir  Theodore  took  up  the  new  life  with  a  heavy  heart.  He 
was  a  man  capable  of  so  much  feeling  that  any  sorrow  struck 
him  a  stinging  blow.  But  he  was  a  faithful  man,  and  a  man 
with  fire  in  him.  Soon  he  began  to  glow  with  energies,  first 
of  duty  then  of  love  born  of  duty's  fulfillment.  The  love  was 
there  from  the  first,  but  his  regret  for  Francis  shrouded  it, 
gave  it  a  meaning  that  was  tragic.  And  he  even  fought  against 
the  change  that  he  felt  was  towards  greater,  unexpected  hap- 
piness. 

For  years  Sir  Theodore  had  been  longing  for  children.  It 
was  almost  as  if  Francis  called  from  the  grave,  "  Take  mine !  " 
It  was  almost  as  if  his  friend  stopped  his  ears  to  that  cry,  but 
at  last  heard  it  in  despite  of  himself  because  it  was  meant  that 
he  should  hear  it.  Now  children  came  into  this  man's  life  as 
they  had  never  come  before,  and  in  his  middle  age,  just  when  a 
man  of  mental  force  and  good  health  is  apt  to  begin  counting 
the  years  that  are  left,  with  a  secret  "  How  long?  How 
long?"  He  had  waited,  he  had  suffered,  he  had  rebelled,  he 
had  even  been  cruel  for  children's  sake,  because  of  his  need  of 
them.  Now  he  began  to  learn  something  of  what  children  are, 
really  are,  in  a  life.  For  soon  he  began  to  be  aware  that  till 
Denzil's  death  he  had  imagined  but  had  not  known.  Intuition 
was  struck  away.  He  had  tottered.  Now  he  walked  hand  in 
hand  with  knowledge. 

Little  Theo  must  be  his  special  care.  He  would  be  respon- 
sible to  Francis  for  what  the  boy  became  in  later  life.  It  was 
difficult,  almost  impossible,  to  have  serious  doubts  as  to  Theo. 
He  was  not  a  saint  but  a  boy.  But  no  malign  spirit  ever  looked 
out  of  his  eyes.  Even  when  he  was  in  a  temper,  or  in  a  rage, 
the  thing  whose  home  is  the  pit  never  rose  to  confront  you  in 
a  look  or  a  movement.  Nevertheless  Sir  Theodore  was  beset 
at  first  by  the  anxieties  of  the  deeply  conscientious  amateur. 
For  the  first  time  he  felt,  "  How  different  I  am  from  a  father!  " 
Evidently  the  instinct,  the  unfailing  instinct,  of  a  father  is  only 
born  in  a  man  when  God  and  a  woman  make  him  one.  Sir 
Theodore  must  fumble  for  it,  but  he  must  never  let  Theo  know 
he  was  fumbling.  He  wished  to  strike  the  happy  mean  be- 
twixt laxity  and  strictness,  to  stiffen  the  boy's  back  without 
dulling  the  brightness  of  his  ingenuous  charm.  And  he  was 
above  all  anxious  never  to  assume  in  this  poor  little  family  any 
sort  of  right.     Full  of  delicacy  he  wished  to  protect,  to  help,  to 


240  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

guide  as  a  man  may,  and  as  only  a  good  and  straight  man  can, 
but  never  to  be  intrusive  or  challenging.  In  the  first  days 
after  his  return  from  London  he  was  full  of  tentativeness,  even 
full  of  indecision.     But  he  was  clever  enough  to  hide  both. 

He  had  first  to  talk  over  business  matters  with  Edna  Denzil. 
Francis  had  not  been  far  wrong  when  he  had  said  that  there 
would  not  be  very  much  for  his  family.  There  was  not.  But, 
with  the  money  coming  from  his  policy  of  life  insurance, 
there  was  enough  for  his  wife  and  children  to  live  upon  quietly, 
enough  to  educate  Theo  thoroughly  well  and  to  launch  him  in 
life.  But  it  would  be  necessary  for  them  all  to  live  carefully 
and  to  avoid  anything  like  extravagance.  Sir  Theodore  had 
gone  to  London  with  a  view  to  changing  some  of  Francis's  in- 
vestments. He  knew  more  about  finance  than  Francis  had 
known,  and  enjoyed  the  advantage  of  having  expert  advice  on 
money  matters  from  America.  He  had  Mrs.  Denzil's  permis- 
sion to  use  this  advice  for  her  advantage  by  selling  out  certain 
English  investments  and  placing  the  money  in  safe  American 
enterprises  which  brought  in  a  higher  percentage.  Sitting  one 
afternoon  in  the  loggia  overlooking  the  Campagna  he  explained 
things  to  her.     She  listened,  agreed,  and  thanked  him. 

The  two  elder  children  were  out  walking  with  Marianna. 
Vi  was  unwell  and  in  bed.  Mrs.  Massingham  had  gone  to  tea 
with  a  friend  in  the  famous  pension.  She  had  not  wished  to 
go,  but  Edna  had  begged  her  to  go. 

"  You  must  not  give  up  all  your  little  pleasures,  mamma,  be- 
cause of  us,"  she  had  said.  "  Why  should  you  not  have  tea 
alone  with  a  friend  ?  " 

"  She  has  her  own  room  of  course,  otherwise "  began 

Mrs.  Massingham. 

"  Go,  mamma,  go.     You  must  pass  your  time,"  said  Edna. 

So  by  chance  she  and  Sir  Theodore  were  quite  alone. 

When  they  had  finished  talking  of  the  necessary  business 
there  was  a  dead  silence  between  them.  Their  subject  done 
with  abruptly  they  seemed  to  fall  away  into  a  sort  of  ghastly 
space,  a  nothingness.  The  truth  of  grief  —  atmospheric  —  en- 
veloped them,  but  they  had  naught  to  cling  to.  And  not  only 
that,  they  were  almost  as  strangers  to  one  another.  A  widow 
' —  could  it  be  Edna  Denzil  ?  A  man  doing  business,  discussing 
the  children's  monetary  future  —  could  it  be  Sir  Theodore? 

In  that  silence  they  were  as  strangers  in  space.  The  brown 
chairs  with  the  red  cushions  now  stood  in  their  appointed  places. 
The  plants,  too,  had  found  their  homes.     On  a  table  lay  some 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  241 

books,  L'ltalie,  which  Mrs.  Massingham  read  and  Edna 
never  read,  a  piece  of  embroidery,  a  box  containing  two  packs 
of  cards.     Augustus,  too,  was  there  reposing  upon  his  left  side. 

Sir  Theodore  saw  the  creature,  and  was  no  longer  in  space. 

"  How  are  Theo  and  Iris's  bear  —  getting  on  here,  Edna?  " 
he  said,  recalling  her. 

As  she  looked  up  he  realized  that  sorrow  had  made  her 
plainer.  Physical  alteration  he  noted,  and  almost  in  despite  of 
himself.     He  had  not  noted  the  deeper  change. 

"  I  scarcely  know,"  she  said.     ''  I  scarcely  know  anything." 

She  looked  at  him,  utterly  careless  of  the  physical  change  in 
herself. 

"  I  feel  " —  she  gazed  round  her  at  the  loggia  — "as  if  I'd 
been  pushed  out  of  everything  and  the  door  locked  against  me, 
or  —  I  don't  know.  I  can't  understand  being  here.  I  can't 
feel  that  I  shall  live  here.  When  I  get  up  in  the  morning  it 
isn't  like  living.     And  when  I  go  to  bed  at  night " 

She  broke  off.     After  a  moment  she  added: 

"  It's  stupid  of  me,  Theodore,  but  I  can't  help  it  —  I  feel 
more  dazed  every  day." 

"  The  quiet  here,  the  pure  air,  in  time  they  will  do  something 
for  you." 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  they  will." 

"And  Edna,  the  children!" 

*'  Without  them  I  don't  think  I  should  be  here  any  longer." 

"Here?" 

"  I  don't  mean  in  Frascati." 

Again  the  silence  fell.  But  in  it  they  were  no  longer  like 
strangers  in  space.  Sir  Theodore  was  aware  of  the  Latin  fire, 
the  Latin  despair  in  his  friend.  The  charming  wife,  the  charm- 
ing mother  was  made  strangely  forceful  by  grief.  He  felt  a 
violence  in  her  which  till  now  he  had  not  suspected. 

"  There  is  your  mother  too,"  he  said. 

"  Mamma  —  yes." 

He  realized  that  Mrs.  Massingham  would  never  be  very 
much  in  her  daughter's  life. 

"  I  made  her  go  out  to-day.  A  friend  asked  her  to  tea. 
Poor  mamma!  But  she  has  been  a  great  help,  and  she  loves 
the  children.  She  sings  to  them  when  they're  in  bed.  Just 
think!     Mamma  singing!  " 

She  looked  vacantly  towards  the  Campagna  and  added: 

"  Canta  la  rondinella:  pace  e  amore 
Canta    I'augurio    bello    del    Signore  — 


242  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

she  sings  that.  Iris  loves  it.  And  I  sit  here,  when  it's  warm 
enough  at  night,  listening." 

On  the  last  word  her  eyes  met  his  and  he  was  able  to  go 
right  down  into  her  despair.  And  he  knew  that  he  might  go, 
that  she  almost,  perhaps,  wished  him  to  go.  Her  eyes  seemed 
to  say: 

"  You  were  his  friend.  You  knew  him.  You  loved  him. 
You  may  go  where  no  one  else  may." 

In  that  moment  Sir  Theodore  knew  that  though  Edna  Den- 
zil  was  still  young,  though  no  doubt  she  would  again  be  charm- 
ing to  the  world  —  for  Time  is  inexorable  in  his  dealings  with 
sorrow  as  with  joy  —  yet  she  would  always  be  a  widow.  She 
would  never  give  up  the  name  Francis  had  bestowed  upon  her. 

"  Dolores  has  been  to  see  me,"  she  said,  as  he  did  not  speak. 

*'  Of  course.     She  told  me." 

"  It  was  good  of  her.     Mamma  quite  loves  her." 

Sir  Theodore  wanted  to  say  warmly  that  he  hoped  Dolores 
would  often  come,  that  he  hoped  Edna  would  take  her  into  the 
new  life  at  Frascati.  But  he  could  not.  He  thought  of  the 
writing-table  covered  with  cards  of  invitation. 

"  Remember,"  he  said,  "  that  in  Rome  there  is  always  a  home 
for  you  to  come  to.     I  speak  for  Doloretta  as  well  as  myself." 

"Thank  you,  Theodore  —  I  know.  But  —  you  won't  be 
hurt?" 

"No,  no.    What  is  it?" 

"  I  think  it  will  be  a  very  long  time  before  I  shall  be  able  to 
come  into  your  apartment.     I  can't  help  it." 

"  Because  —  I  understand." 

"  Make  Dolores  understand  too.     She  has  been  so  kind " 

Edna  swallowed,  and  two  vertical  lines  showed  themselves  in 
her  forehead  above  the  inner  ends  of  her  eyebrows.  "  So  good. 
I  shouldn't  like  her  to  think  me " 

"  She  never  could.  She  could  never  misunderstand  you, 
Edna.     She  knows  you  far  too  well." 

"  And  I  don't  think  I  shall  come  to  Rome  at  all  for  a  very 
long  time." 

Again  she  looked  out  over  the  Campagna.  On  the  extreme 
right  of  the  view  visible  from  the  loggia  there  was  a  small  sec- 
tion of  the  distant  city.  The  day  was  not  very  clear.  On 
such  a  day  from  Frascati  Rome  is  as  a  city  hinted  at  rather 
than  a  city  seen.  In  the  great  plain  there  is  something  which 
suggests  to  the  imagination  the  congregation  of  men.  Smoke 
rises,  trailing  away  towards  the  sea,  perhaps,  or  towards  soli- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  243 

tary  Monte  Soracte.  Vague  shapes  show  themselves,  but  as  if 
surreptitiously.  Dashes  of  white,  darknesses  —  are  those  build- 
ings? That  tiny  upstanding  shadow  —  is  it  the  dome  of  St. 
Peter's? 

From  the  loggia  Edna  could  not  see  that  shadow.  But  she 
saw  enough  to  tell  her  that  Rome  indeed  was  there,  and  sud- 
denly her  eyes  filled  with  tears  and  overflowed. 

She  did  not  wipe  away  the  tears.  She  let  them  run  down 
her  devastated  face.  Why  should  not  Theodore  see  them? 
He,  too,  had  loved  Francis. 

And  in  that  distant  city  people  were  saying,  and  were  even 
believing,  that  the  man  and  the  woman  in  the  loggia  were 
lovers. 

CHAPTER  XIX 

Mrs.  Massingham  read  the  Italic  regularly,  and  she 
could  not  resist  occasionally  telling  her  daughter  scraps  of  its 
social  news.  She  knew  Edna  was  profoundly  indifferent  to  all 
that  went  on  in  Rome  socially,  politically,  in  every  way.  But 
she  had  an  expansive  nature  and  an  almost  physical  desire  to 
share  things.  And  as  the  years  increased  upon  her  she  was  in- 
clined to  yield  more  and  more  to  her  inclinations,  which  were 
very  innocent  and  harmless.  Through  Mrs.  Massingham  Edna 
came  to  know  of  the  present  career  of  Dolores.  For,  as  pre- 
sented by  the  Italic  and  other  papers,  the  goings  out  and 
the  comings  in  of  Dolores  assumed  a  definiteness,  an  impor- 
tance, which  were  lacking  from  them  in  her  own  eyes.  She 
was  trying  to  "  find  something  to  do,"  trying  to  fill  up  somehow 
the  void  of  her  life.  Secret  misery  sketched  out  behind  her  ac- 
tions a  faint  background  of  defiance.  And  this  background 
impressed  the  world  and  apparently  also  the  Roman  newspa- 
pers. One  evening,  towards  twilight,  Mrs.  Massingham,  in 
her  pleasant,  though  slightly  monotonous  voice,  read  out  to  her 
daughter  a  paragraph  from  La  Tribuna  alluding  to  the 
sguardo  Imperiale  of  Lady  Cannynge,  then  passing  onward 
to  the  Italic,  which  to  her  was  always  a  bonne  bouche,  re- 
cited In  French  a  passage  describing  Lady  Cannynge's  skating 
feats  at  the  Palazzo  Miravanti,  and  closing  with  an  allusion 
to  her  powers  at  bridge.  "  If  Lady  Cannynge  draws  even  a 
moderately  good  partner  she  is  almost  certain  to  win  the  prize 
at  Princess  Giamarcho's  forthcoming  bridge  tournament,"  the 
writer  concluded. 


244  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Mrs.  Massingham  laid  down  the  paper. 

"  I  never  knew  before  that  pretty  creature  was  so  mondaine, 
Edna,"  she  observed.  "  And  somehow  I  don't  think  she  looks 
it." 

"  No,  mamma?" 

Mrs.  Massingham  took  up  her  embroidery,  held  her  head 
back,  and  examined  it. 

*'  Of  course  she  is  very  fcmme  du  monde.  iWhere  is  my 
needle  ?  " 

"  Isn't  it  in  your  work?  " 

"  No." 

"  Perhaps  it  has  fallen  under  the  table." 

"  Don't  bother,  little  daughter."  Mrs.  Massingham  nearly 
always  spoke  in  Italian  to  Edna.     "  Oh,  is  it  there?" 

"  I  can't  see  it,  mamma.     But  wait  a  minute!  " 

"Oh,  here  it  is!     I  have  found  it." 

"Where?" 

"  It  was  in  my  w^ork  all  the  time.     I  am  so  sorry." 

Edna  sat  down  again. 

"  Of  course  she  is  very  fcmme  du  monde"  Mrs.  Massingham 
resumed.  "  But  I  don't  know,  I  shouldn't  have  thought  her 
heart  would  be  in  that  kind  of  life.  Do  you  think  she  is  quite 
liappy,  Edna  darling?" 

"  I  can't  tell.  Perhaps  there  are  not  many  quite  happy 
people,  mamma.  But  I  think  she  has  a  great  deal  to  make  her 
happy." 

"Yes?" 

"  Franzi  knew  Theodore  through  and  through,  and  he  said 
to  me  once  that  Theodore  had  a  golden  nature." 

"  What  a  curious  expression,  but  I  quite  understand.  I  am 
sure  Francis  was  right." 

"  He  was." 

"  Then  that  pretty  creature  must  certainly  be  very  happy. 
That  is  a  comfort.     Oh !  " 

"  What  is  it,  mamma?  " 

"  This  time  my  needle  really  has  gone  under  the  table.  I 
am  so  sorry!     They  slip  away  so  easily." 

"  Yes,  mamma." 

'  "Here  it  is!" 

"  I  think  I  chose  well  for  us,  Edna.     This  loggia  is  very 
comfortable  and  healthy  too." 
"  I  am  sure  it  must  be." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  245 

"And  such  a  view!  Not  that  I  bother  very  much  about 
that,  for  after  all  the  Campagna  is  monotonous.  Still  it  is  a 
fine  view  and  we  are  fortunate  to  have  it." 

"  Yes." 

"Iris  seems  to  love  my  singing,  poor  little  thing!  I  sang 
the  '  Cantava  I'usignolo  '  to  her  last  night." 

"Was  it  that?" 

"  Yes.  You  know  it  begins  *  Cantava  I'usignolo  stamattina 
colla  vocina  sua  gentile  e  fina.'  And  when  I  had  done  Iris 
said,  'That  is  your  vocina,  Nonnal'  Wasn't  that  pretty  of 
her,  Edna?" 

Thus  Mrs.  Massingham  was  wont  to  while  away  the  hours 
which  her  daughter  shared  with  her. 

Genuinely  fond  though  Edna  Denzil  was  of  her  mother, 
grateful  for  the  warm  affection  Mrs.  Massingham  unceasingly 
showed  towards  her  and  the  children,  yet  there  were  moments, 
and  not  a  few,  when  the  past  rose  up  as  if  conjured  almost 
malignly  from  out  of  the  ground  by  Mrs.  Massingham,  as  by 
some  sorceress.  Edna  missed  not  m.erely  the  love  of  a  hus- 
band, but  the  intellect  of  a  man  in  her  new  life.  Never  had 
she  been  a  has  bleu,  never  aspired  consciously  to  great  culture, 
or  learning.  But  she  had  quietly  and  fully  entered  into  every 
side  of  Francis's  life.  She  had  been  accustomed  to  talk  over 
with  him  "European  affairs.  She  had  worked  for  him,  and  al- 
ways successfully.  Sometimes  now,  when  Mrs.  Massingham 
talked,  or  read  out  paragraphs  from  the  Italie,  Edna  would 
think  of  the  gaffes  of  Francis,  and  how  often  she  had  set  things 
right,  would  think  of  what  she  had  done  towards  smoothing  the 
way  to  Munich,  would  think  of  their  long  conversations  by  the 
fire  in  winter  when  the  children  were  gone  to  bed.  She  knew 
now  that  she  loved  the  mind  of  a  man,  and  not  merely  the  mind 
of  Francis,  but  the  masculine  mind  for  its  own  sake.  Never 
had  she  fully  realized  this  till  now  when  Francis  was  dead. 
Like  many  others  she  had  to  lose  in  order  to  know.  She  did 
not  say  to  herself  that  the  masculine  mind  was  finer  than  the 
feminine,  and  that  therefore  she  needed  it;  she  said  to  herself 
that  because  it  was  different  from  the  feminine  mind  she 
needed  it. 

Mrs.  Massingham  unconsciously  drew  her  daughter's  atten- 
tion to  this  need.  And  so,  presently,  Edna  grew  to  value  some- 
thing in  Sir  Theodore  which  she  had  not  thought  much  of  till 
now,  the  quality  of  his  mind  for  its  own  sake,  and  for  its  dif- 
ference from  any  woman's. 


246  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

She  began  to  see  many  things  with  a  clear  consciousness  of 
seeing  them  which  hitherto  she  had  overlooked,  or  had  not 
troubled  much  about.  As  a  woman  she  began  to  realize  the 
mental  importance  of  man  in  the  life  feminine,  as  a  mother  to 
grasp  the  value  of  a  worthy  and  straight  man  in  the  budding 
lives  of  children.  Grief,  perhaps,  made  her  selfish  in  a  certain 
respect,  or,  if  not  actively  that,  indifferent.  And  yet  the  con- 
nection that  was  presently  established  between  Palazzo  Bar- 
berini  and  the  house  in  the  Viale  Giuseppe  Ponzi  was  natural 
enough.  It  might  almost  be  said  that  a  dead  man  had  de- 
creed it  when,  in  his  terrible  hour,  he  thought  of  his  wife's  and 
his  children's  future. 

It  came  about  that  Sir  Theodore  began  to  live  In  the  life  at 
Frascati,  and  merely  to  exist  in  the  Roman  life. 

Dolores  did  nothing  to  hinder  him.  Since  the  death  of 
Denzil  a  fatalistic  tendency,  which  perhaps  she  had  always  pos- 
sessed, had  begun  to  develop  within  her.  Perhaps  Edna  Den- 
zil might  have  attenuated,  or  even  destroyed  it.  If  Edna  could 
have  taken  Dolores  simply,  warmly  into  her  heart  and  the  fam- 
ily nest,  have  claimed  her  help  and  sympathy,  have  used  her  — 
above  all,  that!  —  all  might,  perhaps,  have  been  well.  Dolo- 
res might  have  found  within  herself  a  generosity  to  enable  her 
to  conquer  her  obscure  jealousy  of  the  barren  woman  directed 
against  the  woman  who  was  fruitful.  It  must  have  been  hard 
to  do.     It  might  have  been  possible. 

But  the  distaste  of  Edna  for  Dolores,  bred  by  Sir  Theodore's 
sincere  action,  served  to  deepen  the  cloud  in  Palazzo  Barberini, 
widened  the  separation  between  husband  and  wife. 

Sir  Theodore  knew  nothing  of  it.  He  did  not  even  suspect 
it.  On  the  contrary,  he  thought  that  all  the  distaste  was  on 
Dolores'  side.  He  judged  people  —  even  women — by  their 
actions,  and  the  actions  of  Dolores  during  that  Roman  spring 
established  in  him  the  belief  that  though  she  had  been  sincerely 
fond  of  Francis  she  could  never  have  cared  for  Edna.  He 
could  not  otherwise  account  for  the  apparent  discrepancy  be- 
tween her  behavior  when  Francis  was  ill  and  dying,  and  her 
behavior  now  that  he  was  dead.  Never  had  he  seen  Dolores 
so  given  over  to  social  distractions  as  she  was  now.  He  had 
been  a  good  deal  bored,  even  worried,  by  her  efforts  to  form  a 
sort  of  salon  in  the  winter,  but  her  life  then  had  been  quiet, 
almost  peaceful,  compared  with  her  present  life.  There  was, 
however,  this  important  difference  for  him,  that  now  he  was 
definitely  cut  out  of  all  his  wife's  social  doings,  whereas  before 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  247 

he  had  felt  it  his  duty  to  take  a  suitable  part  in  them.  He  was 
determined  not  to  condemn  Dolores  for  plunging  into  gaieties 
almost  before  the  grave  had  closed  over  Francis's  coffin.  But 
he  felt  that  he  need,  nay  that  he  could,  have  nothing  to  do  with 
them.  Dolores  had  her  pleasures.  He  had  his  duty,  and  that 
lay  at  Frascati. 

Very  soon  he  knew  that  his  pleasure,  a  pleasure  he  had  never 
thought  to  have,  lay  there  too. 

The  three  children  turned  to  him  with  the  blessed  simplicity 
and  confidence  of  extreme  youth,  almost  as  to  a  necessary  savior. 
The  death  of  her  father  had  made  little  Viola  ill.  Her  dazed 
and  uncomprehending  grief  of  a  very  small  child  was  compli- 
cated with  fright.  She  connected  the  sudden  disappearance  of 
Denzil  with  unknown  horrors,  such  as  dawn  with  such  facility 
in  a  child's  imagination,  and  cause  such  unspeakable  dread. 
But  she  had  not  become  ill  at  once.  It  was  only  after  the 
family  had  been  for  some  days  at  Frascati  that  she  showed  fully 
the  effect  that  her  father's  death  had  made  upon  her.  Then 
she  was  sick,  feverish,  and  had  painful  fits  of  screaming  espe- 
cially at  night.  The  fever  and  sickness  were  soon  banished  by 
simple  remedies,  but  it  was  evident  that  Viola  was  pining. 
She  had  lost  all  her  animation  and  her  pretty  ways,  would  not 
respond  to  Mrs.  Massingham's  coaxings  and  seductive  blandish- 
ments, carried  almost  to  an  excess,  and  marked  by  strange  nod- 
dings  of  the  head,  startling  movements,  and  a  vocabulary  com- 
posed almost  solely  of  nonsense  words,  and  turned  a  cold  shoul- 
der even  to  her  mother's  endeavors  to  cheer  her  and  hearten 
her.  Only  when  Sir  Theodore  came  upon  the  scene  did  she 
permit  herself  the  indulgence  of  a  faint  smile,  a  half-roguish, 
half-petulant  movement  which  recalled  the  Viola  whom  he  had 
watched  from  behind  the  curtain  one  twilight  evening.  He  re- 
membered just  how  he  had  felt  that  day,  and  one  afternoon, 
yielding  to  a  sudden  impulse  of  irresistible  tenderness,  that  em- 
braced a  dead  man  as  well  as  a  living  child,  he  almost  roughly 
snatched  Viola  up  in  his  arms,  and,  forgetting  the  lost  father's 
beardless,  his  own  bearded  face,  he  pressed  his  lips  against  the 
little  creature's  small  mouth.  And  as  he  kissed  her  again  and 
again,  he  spoke  to  her  in  his  deep  bass  voice.  What  he  said  he 
never  knew.  His  heart  seemed  to  cry  out  independently  of  his 
brain.  To  Mrs.  Massingham,  who  happened  to  enter  with  her 
cards  for  "  patience  "  as  he  caught  the  child  up,  Vi  appeared  to 
be  almost  entangled  in  his  moustache  and  pointed  beard,  so 
tiny  was  her  face,  and  so  closely  did  he  press  it  against  his. 


248  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

The  grandmother  expected  an  outburst  of  shrieks.  But  when 
Viola  emerged  she  was  flushed,  and  wrinkled  up  her  face  in  a 
smile  that  was  almost  triumphant !  And  from  that  moment  she 
got  better.  Her  spirits  rose  gently.  Her  little  arts  and  minute 
coquetries  began  to  peep  out,  like  snowdrops  defying  the  kind 
earth  in  spring.     Her  fears  decreased  and  finally  vanished. 

Mrs.  Massingham  summed  up  the  whole  matter  in  words  not 
without  wisdom. 

"  The  fact  is,"  she  said,  as  she  sat  down  to  lay  out  her  cards, 
"  It  is  as  I  always  suspected,  Edna.     Vi  doesn't  care  for  women." 

Marianna  came  in,  and  Vi  was  reluctantly  parted  from  Sir 
Theodore.  As  she  was  borne  away  she  looked  back  and  cried 
out  to  him. 

"  I  wants  you  eve'y  day !  " 

And  in  her  high  little  voice  there  was  a  sound  of  innocent- 
desire,  and  a  sound  of  hope,  perhaps  also  an  arbitrary  sound. 

Sir  Theodore  came  up  to  the  two  women.  His  bright  eyes 
were  shining. 

"  We  shall  soon  have  her  well  again,"  he  said. 

"You!"  said  Edna. 

"  She  doesn't  care  for  women,"  repeated  Mrs.  Massingham, 
laying  the  cards  in  careful  rows  and  pursing  her  lips,  while  her 
forehead  showed  suddenly  the  exaggerated  wrinkles  peculiar  to 
ardent  patience  players.  "  She  can't  help  it.  I  have  known 
even  babies  in  arms  that  could  distinguish  between  —  no,  I 
shouldn't  have  done  that!  wait  a  moment!  " 

She  fell  into  silence,  knitting  her  brows,  and  rapidly  open- 
ing and  shutting  her  large  yellow-brown  eyes. 

As  Sir  Theodore  was  going  away  that  afternoon  Edna  Denzil 
went  with  him  as  far  as  the  terrace.  The  big  motor  was  wait- 
ing for  him  at  the  top  of  the  steps  near  the  public  garden. 

"  Theodore,"  she  said  —  and  she  spoke  as  if  with  some  diffi- 
culty, looking  down  — "  Vi  is  inclined  to  make  slaves  of  people." 

"Vi!     Ridiculous!"  he  exclaimed.     "That  mite!" 

"  A  mite  can  have  a  compact  little  will.  She  has.  VV^hat  I 
wanted  to  say  though  is  that  we,  as  a  family,  must  not  try 
to  make  a  slave  of  you.  No !  I  just  thought  of  that  when  Vi 
called  out  to  you.     Grief  makes  people " 

"  Edna,  I  ask  you  not  to  speak  like  that!  "  Sir  Theodore  in- 
terrupted. "  Francis  and  I  understood  each  other.  We  talked 
the  —  the  matter  over  that  day  he  told  me  what  he  had  to  pre- 
pare for.  I  told  him  how  it  would  be.  Do  you  wish  it  to  be 
otherwise?  " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  249 

"  No.     How  could  I  ?     But  still "  She  spoke  almost  with 

a  sort  of  obstinacy.  "  We  must  not  make  a  slave  of  you. 
Women  and  children  are  apt  to  cling  and  be  tiresome.  We  all 
know  that." 

For  a  moment  he  looked  at  her  almost  sternly.  Then  his 
face  changed.  He  had  been  a  diplomat,  and  knew  it  was 
wise  to  take  things  lightly. 

"  You  are  quite  right.  I  will  defend  myself  as  best  I  can,"  he 
answered.  "  But  I'm  afraid  of  Vi,  and  I  don't  believe  I  can  pull 
myself  together  enough  to  disobey  her.   However,  we  shall  see." 

That  afternoon,  as  he  drove  down  into  the  Campagna,  he 
recalled  every  detail  of  that  twilight  afternoon  with  Francis, 
when  their  talk  had  been  interrupted  by  the  children's  return, 
and  he  had  hidden  himself  and  watched  Viola  with  her  father. 
And  for  a  moment  he  felt  as  if  his  action  in  snatching  up  the 
little  one  and  kissing  her  into  hope  and  forgetfulness  had  in 
it  something  terrible,  something  traitorous.  He  remembered 
how,  when  she  hid  her  face  against  her  father's  shoulder,  a  knife 
had  seemed  to  be  driven  into  him,  and  how,  at  that  moment  in 
thought  he  had  been  unfaithful  to  Dolores. 

And  that  now,  in  so  short  a  time,  Viola  should  have  to  turn 
to  him!  There  was  something  too  drastic,  too  frightful,  in 
the  perpetual  transformations  of  life.  They  were  too  merci- 
less, too  unprepared.  It  was  as  if  they  were  often  deliberately 
designed  to  crush  the  souls  of  men  to  the  dust,  or  to  wring 
from  the  hearts  of  women  that  most  frightful  of  protests,  the 
cry  in  which  with  despair  a  sharp  rage,  that  Is  almost  animal, 
Is  mingled. 

The  motor  passed  a  giant  cypress  tree  which  stands  sentinel 
on  the  right  of  the  road  as  one  descends  from  Frascati,  and 
Sir  Theodore  had  an  odd  thought,  "  The  safety  of  that  old  tree 
compared  with  mine !  "  And  the  trees  fled  away  on  either  side 
backwards  in  the  gathering  dusk,  and  the  Campagna,  vague, 
full  of  faint  darknesses,  with  its  peculiar  atmosphere  of  dignity, 
and  of  romance  with  a  hint  of  old  savagery,  gave  Itself  to  the 
motor  like  a  prey. 

A  report  like  a  pistol  shot  rang  out.  Pletro,  the  chauffeur, 
applied  the  brakes,  and  wrinkled  up  his  face  into  an  expression 
of  resigned  contempt  that  was  half  philosophic  but  only  half. 
And  Instantly  the  Campagna  was  changed.  No  longer  a  prey 
It  had  become  a  huge,  and  almost  threatening  power,  desolate 
and  mysterious,  with  the  bare  and  barbaric  Sabine  Mountains 
planted  like  troops  along  its  frontiers. 


250  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Sir  Theodore  threw  off  his  coat,  opened  the  door  and  got 
out.  Pfetro  hated  to  be  helped  by  his  master  in,  anything  con- 
nected with  the  motor.     So  Sir  Theodore  said : 

"  I'll  walk  on,  Pietro.  ,When  you've  finished  you  can  catch 
me  up !  " 

"  Sissignore !  " 

Still  with  the  half-contemptuous  expression  on  his  face  Pietro 
bent  down  to  get  out  his  tools.  And  Sir  Theodore  walked 
on  slowly  towards  distant  Rome.  The  evening  was  falling, 
bringing  its  gift  of  delicate  romance  to  watch-tower  and  to 
farm,  to  pine  and  ilex  tree,  to  every  fragment  of  ancient  ruin, 
to  all  things  that  moved  slowly  in  the  vastness,  to  every  sound 
that  floated  over  it.  The  wind  was  light,  fresh  but  not  actu- 
ally cold.  Sir  Theodore  put  up  his  hand.  ,Yes,  surely  it  came 
from  Ostia  and  the  sea. 

Behind  him  lights  began  to  gleam  here  and  there  in  Frascati. 
No  doubt  a  lamp  shone  over  Mrs.  Massingham's  rows  of  cards, 
illuminating  her  mistakes.  What  was  little  Viola  doing  now? 
And  what  Edna?  How  extraordinary  the  difference  the  com- 
ing of  night  makes  every  twenty-four  hours  in  the  life  and  feel- 
ings of  man ! 

In  the  distance  between  him  and  Rome  Sir  Theodore  heard 
the  pealing  of  little  bells.  A  belated  wine  cart  was  approach- 
ing. Soon  it  came  up  and  passed.  The  big  mule  held  its  head 
low.  Under  a  striped  blue  and  red  hood  Sir  Theodore  dis- 
cerned the  humped  form  of  the  carettiere  abandoned  to  sleep. 
Just  behind  the  hood,  on  a  barrel  covered  with  a  bit  of  sacking, 
sat  a  woolly  brown  and  white  dog  barking  at  the  Campagna. 
The  bells  soon  died  away.  Far  off  there  was  the  sound  of  a 
distant  shot,  then  of  sheep  and  lambs  baaing,  and  melancholy 
rough  cries  of  their  shepherds.  Flights  of  birds,  some  twenty  or 
thirty  together,  eddied  through  the  sky  moving  towards  Albano 
and  Rocca  di  Papa.  The  hay-ricks  looked  like  jet  black  bee- 
hives, swollen  to  an  unnatural  size.  The  solitary  towers,  that 
rise  here  and  there  in  the  solitude,  narrow  and  almost  fearfully 
alone,  were  losing  their  aspect  of  solidity,  and  resembled  straight 
columns  of  dark  smoke  melting  gradually  and  about  to  be  dis- 
persed in  the  immensity  of  night. 

As  Sir  Theodore  walked  on  between  the  huge  stretches  of 
grass-covered  flat  land  which  lay  to  left  and  right  of  the  road 
he  was  glad  that  a  tire  had  burst.  But  for  that  Nature  would 
not  have  been  able  to  draw  near  to  him  with  her  hands  full  of 
consolation,  mysteriously,  and  almost  in  defiance  of  his  reason, 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  251 

laying  his  fears  to  rest,  taking  him  beyond  them  for  a  moment, 
breathing  into  his  soul  her  perpetual  message,  "  As  I  am  be- 
yond all  fears  so  shall  each  man,  each  woman  be  at  last  —  and 
forever." 

He  hoped  Pietro  would  be  slow  in  accomplishing  his  task. 
He  had  never  before  walked  far  out  in  the  Campagna  alone  at 
nightfall.     He  had  not  known  its  balm  for  the  spirit. 

A  shepherd  passed  with  his  flock  and  his  big  dog.  He  was 
whistling.  And  his  little  tune  came  gaily  from  under  the  brim 
of  his  broken  black  hat,  which  was  pulled  dov/n  over  his  eyes. 
He  turned  and  stared  after  Sir  Theodore,  but  he  did  not  cease 
from  whistling.  Beyond  Sir  Theodore  now  stretched  a  lonely 
road.  For  a  little  while,  as  he  walked  along  it,  he  heard 
sounds  faint  and  espaced;  a  call  that  seemed  to  come  from  some 
fortress  in  the  Sabines  and  that  died  in  the  shifting  grasses; 
the  whinney  of  a  horse,  and  those  faint  noises  of  evening  in 
solitary  places  which,  as  it  were,  at  the  same  time  are,  and  are 
not,  which  seem  to  be  known  by  the  spirit  rather  than  to  be 
heard  by  the  ears;  then  the  silence  seemed  to  him  to  be  com- 
plete, and  in  its  completeness  tremendous  and  beautiful  —  like 
the  Ludovisi  Giunone. 

He  did  not  know  whether  he  had  walked  on  for  a  long  or  a 
short  time,  when  he  saw  on  the  left  side  of  the  road  a  dark 
and  motionless  object.  It  was  short.  For  a  moment  he  thought 
it  must  be  a  stone  post.  Then  he  saw  it  was  a  man.  The 
man  did  not  move  as  he  approached.  There  were  no  sheep 
about  him.  No  dog  moved  near  him.  And  his  attitude  and 
immobility  were  so  strange  that  on  reaching  him  Sir  Theodore 
involuntarily  stopped.  Even  as  he  did  so  he  saw  that  this 
man  was  Giosue  Pacci.  Wrapped  in  a  dark  blue  cloak,  with 
a  soft  and  very  old  brown  hat  crushed  down  upon  his  fine  head, 
and  a  stout  staff  in  his  hand,  he  was  gazing  with  his  childlike 
blue  eyes  into  the  night,  and  perhaps  hearing  strange  voices 
from  the  past;  from  the  little  farm  of  Horace  near  Tivoli, 
from  Cicero's  villa  on  the  height  of  Tusculum,  from  Hadrian's 
wonderful  dwelling  at  Tibur,  from  the  Lamian  Gardens,  or  the 
sea-house  of  Nero  by  the  waters  of  Antium. 

"  Signor  Pacci !  "  said  Sir  Theodore. 

Pacci  quietly  looked  at  him,  recognized  him  and  smiled. 
When  he  smiled  the  whole  of  him  was  kind,  almost  tender,  but 
the  whole  of  him  seemed  to  remain  a  little  remote ;  not  because 
of  his  intention  but  because  he  could  not  help  its  being  so.  He 
was  evidently  not  at  all  surprised  by  Sir  Theodore's  appear- 


252  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

ance.  Why  should  not  any  sensible  man  be  faring  alone  in  the 
Campagna  while  night  was  drawing  on? 

'  Buona  sera!"  he  murmured,  still  gently  smiling,  and  look- 
ing very  straight  into  Sir  Theodore's  face. 

He  stepped  down  into  the  road,  quietly  joined  Sir  Theodore, 
and  walked  slowly  but  firmly  along  beside  him.  If  he  had 
been  let  alone  he  would  probably  have  continued  thus  till 
their  feet  trod  the  pavements  of  Rome  without  uttering  a  word. 
But  Sir  Theodore,  like  many  others,  loved  to  hear  Pacci  talk, 
and  to  find  him  alone  in  the  Campagna  was  a  chance  to  be 
valued. 

Pacci  haunted  the  Campagna,  but  always  went  into  it,  and 
nearly  always  came  out  of  it  alone.  He  was  absolutely  indiffer- 
ent to  company  though  he  always  seemed  perfectly  at  home 
when  he  was  in  it. 

"  Do  you  know  that  grand  old  fellow  of  a  cypress  on  the  left 
of  the  road  going  up  to  Frascati?"  said  Sir  Theodore. 

"  Si  —  si !  "  said  Pacci. 

The  conversation  was  carried  on  in  Italian. 

"  As  I  came  down  the  hill  just  now  I  wished  I  were  he," 

"  From  love  of  him,  or  fear  of  yourself,"  inquired  Pacci 
mildly. 

"  I'm  afraid  it  was  the  latter." 

"  Most  Europeans  who  really  think  are  full  of  fears.  People 
live  in  the  present,  and  the  present  has  the  terrifying  quality 
of  all  actuality.  The  mystics  are  less  cowardly  because  they 
dwell  in  the  future  with  God,  or  perhaps  with  Madonna,  or 
with  some  kindly  saint  deeply  attached  to  thern  as  they  might 
be  attached  to  a  good  servant.  Antiquarians  live  chiefly  in  the 
past,  and  they  again  put  aside  fears  unconsciously." 

"  Have  you  ever  felt  afraid,  caro  Pacci?  "  said  Sir  Theodore. 

Pacci  was  silent  for  a  little  while. 

"  The  thunderbolts  will  not  fall  upon  me  at  present.  Ful- 
gur  and  Summanus  will  let  me  do  a  little  more  work,"  he  ob- 
served at  length  placidly.  "  I  have  planted  many  flowers 
between  the  two  summits  of  the  Capitoline  Hill." 

"What  stood  there?     Some  place  of  propitiation?" 

"  The  sanctuary  of  him  who  came  from  the  loins  of  Jupi- 
ter, Vediovis." 

"  To  be  sure,  the  evil  Jupiter." 

"  They  must  all  have  their  flowers,  just  as  the  active  gentle- 
men of  Rome  must  have  their  monument,  clear  of  such  rubbish 
of  Palazzo  Venezia  as  can  be  quickly  carted  away. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  253 

"  Would  you  not  be  glad  if  Vediovis  overwhelmed  them  with 
one  of  his  storms?  " 

"  But  if  the  drains  should  be  flooded!  "  said  Pacci.  "  Who 
could  attend  to  that,  when  they  will  soon  be  beautifully  busy 
joining  together  the  three  palaces  on  the  Capitol,  as  a  disease 
might  join  my  fingers  with  membrane?  " 

He  held  up  his  broad  hand. 

"  We  must  not  ask  too  much  even  of  the  gods  of  misfor- 
tune," he  murmured,  and  in  his  smile  there  was  just  a  hint  of 
the  gentlest,  most  innocent  satire. 

"How  you  must  hate  modern  Rome!"  said  Sir  Theodore. 
"  But  —  no  —  I  expect  you  seldom  see  it.  You  live  in  the 
things  you  care  for,  and  very  few  men  do  that.  Would  you 
believe  it  if  I  told  you  that  this  is  the  first  time  I  have  ever 
walked  in  the  Campagna  at  nightfall?  I  have  walked  in  the 
Corso  a  hundred  times." 

Pacci  stopped.  He  turned  towards  the  hidden  place  of  the 
sea.  The  breeze  had  grown  a  little  stronger.  Sir  Theodore 
turned  with  him,  and  it  blew  directly  into  their  faces,  coming 
over  the  grassy  plain  which  melted  away  into  the  dusk. 

"  Yes,"  Pacci  said.  "  It  comes  from  the  sea.  If  we  were 
in  the  Corso  it  would  come  from  the  monument." 

He  opened  his  mouth  wide,  and  stood  thus  for  two  or  three 
minutes  breathing  in  deeply. 

"  One  should  walk  where  the  wind  can  come  to  one  from  the 
sea  as  often  as  possible,"  he  continued  at  last,  walking  slowly 
on  again.  "  Nature  is  not  like  a  modern  woman.  She  requires 
to  be  encouraged.  It  is  not  always  she  who  wants  you.  But  if 
you  want  her  she  is  a  generous  creature  —  a  generous  creature. 
She  is  a  marvelous  collaborator  both  with  the  brain  and  with 
the  soul.  She  helps  the  one  in  creation,  and  she  puts  into  the 
other  a  beautiful  necessity." 

"  What  necessity,  Pacci  ?  " 

"  The  imperious  need  of  being  grateful  to  some  one,  as  Kant 
says." 

Lifting  his  hand  he  quoted  in  an  almost  singing  voice: 

"  Observe  a  man  when  his  spirit  is  most  open  to  his  moral 
instincts.  In  the  midst  of  a  beautiful  scene  of  nature,  invaded 
by  a  full,  but  calm  sense  of  well-being,  there  seizes  hira  an 
imperious  need  to  be  thankful  to  some  one." 

He  paused,  then  in  a  muffled  voice  he  added: 

"  And  the  Campagna  is  Nature's  most  beautiful  scene,  and 
peopled,  thank  God,  only  with  memories." 


254  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Some  of  them  scarcely  calm  and  beautiful  though !  "  said 
Sir  Theodore,  with  a  touch  of  irony,  wishing  to  rouse  his  com- 
panion up. 

But  Pacci  did  not  seem  to  hear  him. 

"  Horace,  Hadrian,  Cicero "  he  murmured, 

"And  Nero?"  interjected  Sir  Theodore. 

Pacci  looked  round  at  him  rather  sharply. 

"  I  always  connect  the  thought  of  Nero  with  beauty  and  with 
calm,"  he  obsei-ved.  "  I  do  not  need  to  go  to  Anzio  to  forgive 
him  for  his  mistakes  and  his  errors.  Wherever  Nero  is  known 
to  have  lived  dig,  and  you  will  discover  some  glorious  Greek 
work.  This  fact  proves  that  in  the  soul  of  Nero  existed  a 
persistent  love  of  beauty  and  simplicity." 

"  I  think  the  art-love  of  a  man  is  often  a  passion  quite 
apart  from  the  rest  of  his  nature,"  said  Sir  Theodore.  "  And 
not  expressive  of  it  —  necessarily." 

In  the  distance  out  of  the  gathering  darkness  rose  the  loud 
and  long  cry  of  some  shepherd.  It  sounded  at  the  same  time 
very  fierce  and  very  sad,  but  wonderfully  real  and  vital ;  so 
vital  that  Sir  Theodore  felt  as  if  it  plunged  him  abruptly  up 
to  the  neck  in  humanity,  coarse  perhaps,  brutal,  but  tingling 
with  the  almost  terrible  interest  of  life. 

"  Men  are  mysteries  and  should  not  judge  each  other,"  said 
Pacci,  turning  his  head  slowly  in  the  direction  of  the  cry. 
**  What  an  enigma  was  in  that  shepherd's  call !  And  yet  that 
shepherd  only  desired  to  express  what  was  in  him  at  that  mo- 
ment, and  tried  to  do  so  with  naked  simplicity.  Only  he  could 
not  help  being  mysterious.  Rome  came  from  shepherds,  but 
not  even  Rome  ever  was  able  to  express  what  shepherds  really 
were.  And  not  even  the  monument  will  be  able  to  express 
all  that  the  modern  Roman  is." 

Sir  Theodore  could  not  help  smiling  at  Pacci's  last  sentence, 
in  which  once  again  a  faint  and  subtle  irony  glided. 

"  Tell  me  the  truth,  Pacci,"  he  said.  "  I  hear  Hagenbeck 
has  undertaken  to  supply  a  magnificent  collection  of  wild  beasts 
to  Rome  when  there  is  a  place  for  them  in  the  Villa  Borghese. 
Wouldn't  you  like  to  be  allowed  to  feed  them  with  —  shall  we 
say  certain  human  mysteries?  " 

Pacci  looked  meditative. 

"  Are  you  making  a  mental  selection,  Pacci  ?  "  Sir  Theodore 
inquired,  at  length. 

"No,  no!  I  am  a  great  lover  of  animals,"  murmured  the 
historian. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  255 

At  this  moment  the  purr  of  the  motor  sounded  behind  them, 
and  Pietro  came  up  at  top  speed.  Regretfully  Sir  Theodore 
opened  the  door,  and,  to  his  surprise,  Pacci  immediately  stepped 
in,  sat  down,  and  went  on  talking. 

"  No,  no!     And  specially  not  in  the  Villa  Borghese!" 

Sir  Theodore  shut  the  door,  and  Pietro  started.  The  strong 
lights  of  the  motor  illumined  the  white  and  deserted  road,  and 
emphasized  the  darkness  of  the  great  spaces  on  either  hand. 
"  All  that  is  done  should  be  done  in  the  suitable  place,"  went  on 
Pacci.     "  Otherwise  ugly  confusion  arises." 

"  You  are  thinking  that  the  Colosseum ?  "  Sir  Theodore 

began. 

But  Pacci  interrupted  him  by  saying: 

"  Is  there  a  way  of  stopping  it?" 

*'  Do  you  mean  the  motor?  " 

"  Yes.     Can  you  stop  it  ?  " 

"  Of  course.     Do  you  wish  me  to  ?  " 

"  Per  piacere!  " 

Sir  Theodore  communicated  with  Pietro,  who  applied  the 
brakes.  Pacci  opened  the  door  on  his  side,  got  out  and 
shut  it  with  a  snap.  He  then  got  up  upon  the  step,  and  pre- 
pared to  resume  the  conversation,  holding  to  the  door  with 
both  his  hands  and  having  his  stall  tucked  under  his  left 
arm. 

"  You  remember  the  kneeling  angel  that  Leonardo  painted 
in  Verrocchio's  '  Baptism  of '  " 

At  this  point  Pietro,  under  the  impression  that  his  padrone's 
mysterious  acquaintance  of  the  Campagna  had  been  shed  into 
the  darkness,  sent  the  motor  on  at  a  rapid  pace. 

"  '  Of  Christ?  '  "  said  Pacci,  thrusting  one  hand  into  the  mo- 
tor to  make  sure  of  Sir  Theodore's  attention,  and  holding  fast 
to  the  door  with  the  other.  "  That  angel  stopped  Verrocchio's 
brush.     Now  I " 

"  Let  me  stop  the  motor,  and  then !  " 

But  Pacci  only  held  more  firmly  to  Sir  Theodore's  arm,  and, 
leaning  well  forward,  continued  earnestly: 

"  The  world  is  said  to  advance.  I  don't  say  it  does  —  but 
it  certainly  travels.  -I  suppose  the  period  for  using  wild  animals 
in  the  way  you  suggest  is  one  from  which  we  have  traveled 
away.  But  if  a  Leonardo  could  carve  another  angel  on  a  cer- 
tain building  and  stop " 

The  motor  sprang  across  an  Inequality  in  the  road,  and  the 
historian  executed  what  looked  like  some  strange,  and  perhaps 


256  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

symbolic  dance.  Sir  Theodore  broke  away  decisively  and 
shouted  to  Pietro,  who  pulled  up  with  a  jerk, 

Pacci  immediately  got  down  into  the  road,  and  said:  *'  But  we 
have  no  Leonardo!"  made  a  slow  gesture  with  his  hand,  and 
disappeared  into  the  night,  walking  with  a  firm  and  composed 
tread.  Pietro  turned  round,  his  large  eyes  rolling  with  in- 
quiry, to  ask  what  was  wanted. 

"  Ma  come  e  ancora  qui  questo  s'lgnoref  "  he  blurted  out. 

"  A  casa!     A  casa!  "  said  Sir  Theodore. 

He  leaned  back  in  the  motor  and  blessed  Pacci. 


CHAPTER  XX 

"  Bridge  has  one  supreme  merit.  It  takes  possession  of  the 
mind.  While  one  is  playing  one  is  absorbed  and  can  think  of 
nothing  else." 

Princess  Mancelli  had  given  Dolores  a  recipe  for  forgetful- 
ness  one  afternoon  in  the  Palazzo  Urbino.  Dolores  remembered 
the  words  in  that  Roman  spring,  and  she  found  there  was  truth 
in  them.  When  she  was  happy  she  had  cared  very  little  for 
bridge,  though  she  had  played  sometimes  to  make  up  a  four 
and  because  every  one  played.  Now  she  played  in  order  to 
obtain  short  periods  of  forgetfulness,  and  she  came  to  think  of 
bridge  not  as  a  pastime  but  as  a  narcotic,  and  to  care  for  it 
as  a  woman  in  physical  pain  might  care  for  morphia.  And 
as  her  love  for  the  game  grew  her  skill  as  a  player  rapidly 
increased. 

She  was  now  living  chiefly  in  a  world  in  which  the  un- 
essential things  of  life  are  given  vast  importance,  in  which 
"  crazes  "  take  the  place  of  tastes,  fashions  suffocate  individual 
desires,  and  freedom  is  a  thing  unknown,  perhaps  scarcely 
dreamed  of.  And  she  was  trying  to  trick  herself  in  regard  to 
this  world.  Taken  lightly  it  had  its  charm  and  its  value. 
But  Dolores  was  not  in  a  condition  to  take  anything  lightl}% 
She  caught  at  a  feather  and  tried,  by  her  obstinacy  of  imagina- 
tion, to  turn  it  into  a  bar  of  iron.  She  was  like  a  child  that, 
holding  in  Its  hand  a  pebble,  shuts  Its  eyes,  clenches  Its  teeth, 
and  resolves  that  the  pebble  shall  become  a  piece  of  money. 

In  her  secret  misery  she  was  greedy,  and  she  desired  to  seize 
everything  the  world  to  which  she  was  clinging  could  give.  As 
well  as  Its  frivolous  side  It  had  an  apparently  serious  side.     It 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  257 

not  only  danced,  skated,  dined  and  played  bridge.  It  also 
listened  to  music,  discussed  politics,  dabbled  in  religions,  and 
pronounced  judgment  on  literature  and  art.  Only  in  bridge, 
however,  did  Dolores  find  now  and  then  for  a  time,  almost 
complete  forgetfulness.  She  played  nearly  every  afternoon  as 
well  as  on  most  evenings.  But  on  Sunday  nights  she  usually 
went  to  the  house  of  a  certain  Mrs.  Eldridge,  who  gave  parties 
which  were  not  only  smart,  but  were  supposed  to  be  also  im- 
portantly brilliant. 

Mrs.  Eldridge  was  the  widow  of  a  very  rich  Englishman, 
and  she  had  the  reputation  In  Rome  of  being  extremely  clever. 
She  was  middle-aged,  self-possessed,  and  apparently  active- 
minded,  though  really  muddle-headed.  Her  special  gift  was  to 
put  subjects  on  the  carpet  and  leave  them  there  to  be  worried  by 
her  Intellectual  guests,  while  she  and  her  guests  who  were  not 
intellectual  sat  round  and  assisted  at  the  melee.  If  any  unwary 
person  incautiously  tested  her  by  attempting  to  go  profoundly 
into  the  discussion  of  a  difficult  subject  she  was  out  of  her  depth 
at  once.  Nevertheless  through  all  Roman  society  she  was  spoken 
of  as  a  very  clever  woman,  and  it  was  considered  "  the  thing  " 
to  appear  at  her  Sundays.  She  had  chosen  Sunday  night  for 
her  series  of  receptions  because  she  considered  that  the  serious 
intellectuality  at  which  she  aimed  was  specially  suited  to  a  day 
that  was  a  little  apart  from  other  days.  Rome  did  not  bother 
about  such  a  subtle  trifle  as  that.  Mrs.  Eldrldge's  wealth  and 
determination  had  captured  it  and  it  gave  her  a  sort  of  special 
niche  In  Its  gallery  of  hostesses. 

One  Sunday  night  Dolores  came  rather  late  Into  Mrs.  El- 
drldge's carefully  decorated  house  which  was  In  the  Piazza  deli' 
Indipendenza.  Wonderful  copies  of  famous  Italian  paintings 
hung  upon  the  walls,  most  of  them  made  by  a  Florentine  painter 
whom  Mrs.  Eldridge  had  discovered  a  great  many  years  ago. 
There  were  also  a  few  genuine  old  masters,  religiously  sepa- 
rated from  the  rest  and  carefully  lighted  up.  The  colors  of 
carpets  and  hangings  were  subdued,  almost  austere,  but  very 
delicate,  very  harmonious.  The  few  tapestries  were  admirable, 
the  few  bronzes  classically  simple,  classically  calm.  On  the 
Stelnway  grand  piano  nothing  was  ever  put  except  music. 
There  were  not  too  many  sofa  cushions,  not  too  many  flowers, 
not  too  many  bibelots,  not  even  too  many  servants. 

Mrs.  Eldrldge's  "note"  was  an  exquisite  austerity,  and  she 
had  been  "  helped  with  her  house  "  by  some  one  who  knew  a 
great  deal  more  than  she  did. 


258  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  True  beauty  is  found  in  economy,"  was  a  favorite  remark 
of  hers.  "  Don't  mistake  me!  Don't  think  I  mean  economy  of 
money!"  And  then  she  would  compose  her  rather  large 
features  into  an  expression  of  patient  nobility,  as  of  one  who  had 
to  endure  a  good  deal  of  misunderstanding  at  the  hands  of  a 
world  unable  to  rise  to  the  heights  on  which  she  usually  stepped. 

Despite  her  austerity,  however,  Mrs.  Eldridge  was  exceed- 
ingly fond  of  "  names  "  and  smart  people,  and  she  lived  up  to 
her  watchword  when  it  came  to  engaging  a  chef  or  an  artist, 
a  famous  lecturer,  or  a  man  to  reset  her  jewels.  Even  upon 
the  heights  she  kept  an  instinct  that  was  worldly-wise,  and  un- 
derstood that  in  an  existence  where  all  is  vanity  it  is  as  well 
to  be  able  to  be  vain. 

As  Dolores  came  in  the  last  bar  of  a  string  quartet  sub- 
sided, apparently  on  the  leading  note,  and  people  began  to 
move  about,  to  break  up  into  groups,  and  to  say  things  that 
they  hoped  would  be  thought  brilliant  and  quoted,  or  be 
thought  deep  and  meditated  over.  The  four  players  disap- 
peared. Mrs.  Eldridge  never  had  too  much  string  music. 
Economy!     Economy!     The  jaded  palate  can  savor  nothing. 

In  the  distance  Dolores  saw  Lady  Sarah  Ides  bending  her 
characteristic  head  towards  an  invisible  talker.  She  also  saw 
Princess  Mancelli,  Pacci,  Mr.  Verrall,  Mrs.  Tooms,  Count 
Boccara,  Princess  Carelli  and  many  others  whom  she  knew. 
She  was  rather  surprised  to  see  Lady  Sarah,  who  very  seldom 
went  to  large  parties.  But  she  knew  that  Mrs.  Eldridge  was 
an  old  acquaintance  of  Lady  Sarah's  family,  and  was  sometimes 
very  determined  in  her  invitations. 

Mrs.  Eldridge,  in  a  remarkable  gown  of  brown  velvet  with 
bronze  lights  In  it,  came  rather  mysteriously  up,  and  greeted 
Dolores  with   a  careful  imitation  of  the   Monna  Lisa  smile. 

"  You  heard  the  last  note  ?  "  she  asked,  in  a  soft  contralto 
voice. 

"  Yes.     I  am  afraid  I'm  very  late." 

"  The  ear  has  to  supply  the  key-note.  The  composer,  Mon- 
sieur Martin,  designed  it  so  to  stimulate  his  hearers  to  an  in- 
tellectual activity.  When  I  was  in  Paris  in  the  autumn  he 
allowed  me  to  penetrate  his  new  method." 

"How  interesting.     What  is  it  exactly?" 

Mrs.  Eldridge  moved  with  a  sudden  hint  of  restlessness. 

"  Well  —  the  —  the  —  he  wishes  to  introduce  into  music  the 
■ —  the  —  note  the  Japanese  long  ago  introduced  Into  art,  to 
carry    it  —  yes  —  even    farther.     We   have  been   too   positive. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  259 

hitherto,  too  detailed  In  art.  And  so  —  yes  —  we  must  be  led 
to  love  indications,  hints.  We  must  learn. to  supply  for  our- 
selves what  composers  and  painters  could,  but  no  longer  choose 

to,  give  us.     There  you  have  the  whole  method  in  a "  She 

was  probably  going  to  say  "  nutshell,"  but  she  suddenly  checked 
herself  and  substituted  "  synthetic  form." 

"How  interesting!"  Dolores  almost  mechanically  repeated, 
looking  into  the  large  face  of  Mrs.  Eldridge  with  her  gazelle- 
like eyes. 

"  The  step  forward !  "  said  Mrs.  Eldridge.  "  Art  In  the 
sense  of  aesthetic  appreciation !  " 

She  often  quoted  without  putting  quotation  marks. 

"Well?"  she  added,  looking  round. 

Her  eyes  lit  on  a  group  of  people  talking  rather  eagerly 
at  one  end  of  the  room  under  a  copy  of  Raphael's  "  Madonna 
del  Cardellino." 

"Ah!  a  discussion!"  she  exclaimed.     "Let  us  join  It!" 

She  put  a  plump  and  heavily  dimpled  white  hand  upon  the 
arm  of  Dolores,  and  drew  her  towards  the  group. 

"What  is  It?"  she  said,  as  the  talkers  glanced  round. 

One,  an  eager-looking  man,  an  Italian  of  perhaps  forty, 
sprang  up  to  offer  his  seat. 

Mrs.  Eldridge  drew  Dolores  Into  It  with  her. 

"  Lady  Cannynge  and  I  saw  something  really  Interesting  was 
going  on  here,  and  we  are  always  on  the  alert  for  the  keen 
minds.     The  Damascus  blades  for  us!  " 

She  looked  round  with  her  determined,  but  rather  dull  eyes. 

"What  is  it  all  about,  Donna  Flavia?" 

Donna  Flavia,  a  thin,  plain,  but  very  animated  looking 
woman  well  over  forty,  replied,  in  a  high  and  energetic  voice: 

"  We  were  talking  about  the  Donna  Delinquente." 

"Lombroso!"  said  Mrs.  Eldridge,  pressing  her  hand  on  the 
hand  of  Dolores.     "Well?" 

Princess  Mancelll  came  up  with  Verrall,  and  stood  on  the 
outskirts  of  the  group,  listening. 

"  Marco  will  have  it  that  the  woman  who  sins  always  sins 
from  one  root  motive." 

"One  root  motive!"  repeated  Mrs.  Eldridge  slowly,  as  If 
determined  to  fix  the  expression  In  her  memory  for  all  time. 
"  And  what  motive  —  root  motive?  " 

"  Love,  in  some  form  or  other." 

The  Italian  opened  his  lips  to  break  In.  But  Donna  Flavia 
continued  with  even  greater  energy: 


26o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  You  did  contend  that,  Marco.  And  of  course  we  all  knew 
exactly  what  you  meant.     You  meant  sex  love." 

"  I " 

"  As  a  man  always  does  when  he  speaks  of  woman's  loving. 
It  never  occurs  to  him  that  we  are  capable  of  aflPectlons  In 
which  man  has  no  part,  into  which  he  does  not  enter  at 
all " 

"  Cara  Flavia,"  vehemently  Interposed  the  Italian,  smiling, 
however,  with  his  whole  face.  "  I  must  beg  you  to  except  chil- 
dren, though  even  they  are  scarcely  unconnected  with  man!  " 

"Oh,  children!" 

"  Yes,  Indeed.  I  think  a  woman  would  be  as  likely  to  com- 
mit a  crime  for  the  sake  of  her  children  as  for  the  sake  even 
of  her  lover." 

"Her  lover!"  said  Donna  Flavia.  "And  why  not  add  — 
or  her  husband  ?  Or  do  you  think  women  never  love  their  hus- 
bands, for  excellent  reasons  supplied  liberally  by  those  hus- 
bands?" 

Two  or  three  people  laughed.  It  was  the  fashion  to  laugh 
at  Donna  Flavla's  sharp,  or  downright  sayings. 

"  This  Is  profoundly  Interesting,"  said  Mrs.  Eldridge. 
"  What  do  you  say.  Princess  ?  " 

She  threw  the  remark  to  Princess  Mancelll,  who  made  a 
little  gesture  with  her  left  hand  and  said : 

"  Nothing.     I  haven't  grasped  the  discussion  yet." 

A  slightly  satirical  smile  flitted  over  her  face.  "  When  I 
am  more  enlightened " 

She  glanced  at  Mr.  Verrall. 

"  I  will  add  —  or  of  any  man  whom  she  loves,  legitimately 
or  not,"  said  Don  Marco  Torani.  "  There  are  some  deserving 
husbands  even  in  Rome,  I  suppose,  and  some  women  who  re- 
ward the  deserving." 

"  And  for  an  idea,"  said  Donna  Flavia.  "  Do  you  mean 
to  say  that  no  woman  would  commit  a  crime  for  an  Idea?  What 
about  women  Nihilists?" 

"  They  always  work  In  connection  with  men.  I  should  con- 
tend that,  If  you  could  thoroughly  look  into  the  ramifications 
of  Nihilism,  you  would  find  that  they  worked  really  because  of 
men,  because  of  enthusiasm  caught  from  men,  comrades." 

He  paused  and  looked  round  the  circle  with  his  large  and 
rather  satirical  eyes. 

"  Comrades !  What  a  word  that  Is !  What  a  lot  of  secret 
things  It  covers  In  the  mouth  of  a  woman !  " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  261 

"Really,  Marco,  you  are  the  victim  of  an  idee  fixe!"  ex- 
claimed Donna  Flavia.  "  You  see  sex  love  in  every  action  of 
every  woman.  That  absurd  maniac,  Weininger,  and  that  odi- 
ous Nietzsche  —  both  madmen  by  the  way,  for  Weininger's  sui- 
cide v/as  an  indication  of  insanity  —  have  disturbed  the  balance 
of  your  mind,  amico  rnio.  Women  sin  from  many  motives  with 
which  maternity  and  sexual  affection  have  nothing  whatever 
to  do." 

"Look  at  Charlotte  Corday!"  said  ]\Irs.  Eldridge  em- 
phatically. 

"  But  in  the  first  place  I  contend  that  Charlotte  Corday 
did  not  sin!"  exclaimed  Don  Marco. 

He  was  evidently  preparing  to  tackle  Mrs.  Eldridge  seri- 
ously on  the  relation  of  violent  acts  to  the  general  good  of 
humanity,  and  the  moral  psychology  of  revolutionaries,  when 
a  thin  old  man,  a  senator,  Signor  Peraldi,  interposed  with 
these  remarks,  uttered  in  a  faded  voice: 

"Where  women  differ  from  men  is  in  this:  A  woman  is 
capable  of  committing  a  sin,  and  never  realizing  it  is  a  sin, 
because  of  the  thought  in  her  heart  when  she  carries  out  her 
act.  A  man's  thought  does  not  blind  him  in  the  same  way. 
Therefore  more  severe  punishment  should  be  meted  out  by 
justice  to  men  than  to  women.  French  juries  are  not  nearly  so 
incompetent  for  their  function  as  many  people  think." 

"  The  thought  in  her  hearty  senatore,"  said  Don  Marco. 

But  the  old  man  had  already  walked  away. 

"  Oh,  he  used  the  right  substantive,"  said  the  Princess  Man- 
celli. 

There  was  a  moment's  pause.  Something  either  in  the  old 
senator's  manner,  or  in  his  matter,  had  produced  a  change  in 
the  mental  atmosphere.  But  Mrs.  Eldridge  both  hated  and 
dreaded  pauses  at  her  parties.  She  thought  they  meant  failure. 
Now,  therefore,  she  made  a  mental  effort,  and  flung  down  a 
subject  on  the  carpet. 

"  You  were  speaking  of  husbands  and  —  and  wives,"  she 
remarked,  gathering  listeners  to  her  with  a  circular  glance. 
"  I  have  noticed  that  different  nations  take  different  views 
of  what  is  due  from  the  man  to  the  woman  and  —  and  con  — 
and  vice  versa  in  the  marriage  state.  Now  what  is  the  Roman 
view  ?  Here  we  all  are  In  Rome.  Let  us  have  the  Roman  view 
of  the  matter." 

A  satisfied  look  spread  itself  over  her  face  as  she  sat  back 
on  the  sofa  by  Dolores.     She  had  now  only  to  wait  for  the 


262  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

melee.  For  the  moment  she  had  forgotten  Princess  Mancelli's 
relations  with  the  Prince.  Verrall  began  to  speak  quietly  to 
the  Princess,  bending  towards  her  in  his  agreeable,  half-defer- 
ential, half-seductive  way,  and  Don  Marco,  after  a  quick  glance 
towards  them,  said : 

■  "  Even  in  Rome  the  man's  views  on  that  matter  are  sure  to 
be  different  from  the  woman's." 

"  Give  us  yours,  Marco!  "  said  Donna  Flavia,  in  a  satirical 
voice.     "  They  may  serve  as  a  guide  to  us  all." 

"I  assume" — Don  IVIarco  turned  to  Mrs.  Eldridge,  who 
was  rather  startled,  and  almost  a  little  confused,  at  having 
more  mental  activity  expected  of  her  so  soon,  "  that  you 
mean  the  Roman  view  of  marital  unfaithfulness?  " 

Mrs.  Eldridge  had  really  not  meant  anything  so  definite 
as  that,  but  she  answered : 

"  Of  course.     What  else  could  I  mean,  dear  Don  Marco?  " 

Don  Marco's  face  had  changed  a  little.  It  looked  harder 
than  before. 

"I  believe  in  the  unwritten  law  —  as  regards  the  husband," 
he  said.  "  I  think  " —  Princess  Mancelli  and  Verrall  were 
walking  away  slowly — "  if  a  wife  is  unfaithful  and  the  hus- 
band shoots  her,  strict  justice  has  been  done.  I  don't  say  I 
would  do  it  myself,  or  even  that  I  wish  it  to  be  done.  I  only 
say  it  is  strict  justice." 

"Of  course!  I  could  have  said  all  that  for  you,  Marco!" 
cried  Donna  Flavia.  "  And  the  wife  who  shoots  the  unfaithful 
husband?  " 

"  That  Is  murder,  not  justice." 

"  His  father  is  Sicilian !  "  said  Donna  Flavia  sweetly  to 
those  about  her.  "  That  means  about  five  hundred  years  in  the 
rear  of  modern  civilization  —  and  proud  of  it!  " 

Don  Marco  laughed. 

"  Possibly  I  am  in  the  background  mentally,"  he  rejoined. 
"  But  I  have  met  with  " —  his  eyes  happened  to  fall  on  Dolores 
— "  with  Englishmen  who  think  just  as  I  do,  that  there  must, 
• — even  owing  to  physiological  reasons  —  be  one  law  for  men, 
another  for  women  in  this  matter.  What  would  your  husband 
say,  do  you  think.  Lady  Cannynge?"     She  smiled. 

"  Oh,  I  think  he  is  far  too  civilize  ever,  under  any  circum- 
stances, to  dream  of  daggers  and  pistols  in  connection  with  his 
wife,"  she  replied. 

She  looked  lightly  amused.  But  she  was  really  thinking, 
with  deep  and  sudden  seriousness. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  263 

"  If  —  what  would  Theo  be  like?     What  would  Theo  do?  " 

"  And  " — said  Donna  Flavia,  who  was  always  argumentative, 
and  who  was  secretly  devoted  to  Don  Marco,  "  if  a  husband 
drives  his  wife  into  sin  by  his  cruelty,  or  his  persistent  neglect? 
Have  you  nothing  to  say  for  her,  and  against  him,  then  Marco?  " 

"A  hit!  a  palpable  hit!"  exclaimed  Mrs.  Eldridge,  who  by 
long  practice  had  become  a  highly  efficient  "  bottle-holder." 

Again  Don  Marco's  face  hardened,  and  his  under  jaw  quiv- 
ered for  an  instant. 

"  I  do  not  defend  him,  but  I  say  that  a  really  good  woman 
never  could  be  driven  into  sin." 

"  There  I  don't  agree  with  you !  "  said  a  new  voice,  breaking 
in. 

A  small,  thin,  dried  up  Englishman  was  the  speaker. 

"  Bravo,  Mr.  Belton!  "  said  Donna  Flavia,  scenting  an  allj''. 

"  An  angel  might  be  driven  into  sin  under  certain  given 
circumstances,"  said  Mr.  Belton.  *'  If  the  angel  were  of  the 
female  sex." 

*'  Oh,  but "  cried  Donna  Flavia.     "  Are  you,  too,  going 

to  put  us  below  men  ?  " 

"  Far  from  it !  Men  never  are  angels  and  they  need  no  driv- 
ing where  it  is  a  question  of  sin."  returned  Mr.  Belton. 

"  There,  Don  Marco!  "  said  Mrs.  Eldridge,  in  great  delight, 
"  the  battle  is  arrayed  against  you!  " 

"  And  what  are  the  circumstances?  "  asked  Don  Marco,  turn- 
ing towards  the  little  man. 

"  Poor  people  manage  with  very  little  to  eat,"  said  Mr. 
Belton,  in  his  thin  and  small  voice.  "  But  if  they  are  to  live 
at  all,  they  must  have  something,  they  must  have  the  crust 
of  bread.     So  it  is  with  my  angels." 

"  And  what  must  they  have?  "  said  Don  Marco. 

"  At  least  a  crust  of  affection,  if  possible  from  the  man  who 
has  taken  their  life  into  his  hands.  But  if  they  don't  get  it 
from  him,  and  if  they  are  to  go  on  living " 

At  this  moment  Mrs.  Eldridge  happened  to  see  that  a  very 
important  ambassadress  was  entering  the  farther  drawing- 
room,  and  she  got  up. 

"Now,  Don  Marco,  what  have  you  to  say  to  that?"  she 
observed.     "The  crust  of  bread  —  a  very  admirable  simile!" 

She  moved  away,  and  Dolores  rose  and  followed  her.  She 
wanted  to  remain,  to  hear  more,  but  something  within  her  told 
her  not  to  do  so.  As  Mrs.  Eldridge  went  to  greet  the  ambassa- 
dress Dolores  paused,  looking  round  for  acquaintances,  and  her 


264  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

eyes  fell  upon  a  young  girl,  whom  she  could  not  remember 
having  seen  before.  This  girl  was  standing  close  to  the  Prin- 
cess Carelli,  and  Dolores  —  she  did  not  know  why  —  looked  at 
her  closely,  with  a  scrutiny  that  took  note  of  every  detail  of 
her  appearance  and  dress. 

She  was  evidently  very  young,  perhaps  eighteen,  and  was 
very  pretty,  but  extraordinarily,  almost  unnaturally,  like  a  doll. 
In  every  way  she  was  what  is  generally  called  petite.  Her 
figure  was  narrow,  her  bones  were  small,  her  waist  was  so 
tiny  that  she  looked  as  if  at  a  rude  touch  she  must  break  in 
two.  Her  head,  crowned  with  a  mass  of  yellow  hair,  in  tex- 
ture like  spun  silk,  was  flat  at  the  back,  going  almost  in  a 
straight  line  into  her  minute  and  very  white  neck.  Her  com- 
plexion was  marvelously  pink  and  white,  very  fresh,  very  vir- 
ginal, and  her  features  were  cameo-like  in  their  regularity. 
She  had  bright,  staring  blue  eyes,  and  exquisite  little  hands 
and  feet.  Simply,  but  beautifully  dressed  in  white,  she  stood 
very  still,  looking  about  her  with  an  air  of  absolute  self-pos- 
session and  without  any  curiosity.  This  entire  lack  of  curi- 
osity impressed  Dolores  unfavorably.  It  suggested  coldness,  al- 
most heartlessness,  in  one  so  young. 

A  young  man  from  the  French  Embassy  came  up  and  spoke 
to  Dolores. 

"  Who  is  that  little  girl?  "  she  asked  him. 

"  Which  little  girl?  "  he  said,  looking  around  him.  "  There 
are  so  many  little  girls  in  Rome,  and  indeed  almost  ever}-- 
where." 

"  That  one,  over  there  by  Princess  Carelli." 

The  Frenchman  followed  her  eyes. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said  expressively.  "  But  that  little  girl  is  a  very 
important  person !  " 

"  May  one  ask  why?  " 

"  She  is  to  have  the  biggest  '  dot '  in  Rome." 

"  And  that  fact  makes  her  important!  " 

"Does  it  not?" 

*'  Of  course." 

"  She  is  Donna  Ursula  Montebruno." 

"A  relation  of  Marchese  Montebruno,  the  great  gambler?" 

"  The  daughter  of  one  of  his  cousins,  Giacomo  Montebruno, 
who  married  Miss  Mullins,  the  only  child  of  the  Colorado  oil 
king.  His  Majesty  has  had  the  good  taste  to  die,  and  that 
little  lady  will  eventually  possess  enough  money  to  make  Midas 
uneasy  in  his  grave.     For  she  also  is  an  only  child.     No  won- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  265 

der  she  is  terribly  self-possessed.  Does  not  her  hair  glitter 
like  a  shower  of  sovereigns?  " 

"  Poor  little  thing,"  said  Dolores. 

"But  why?" 

Dolores  lifted  her  shoulders  slightly. 

"  I  don't  —  know!  "  she  murmured. 

But  in  her  heart  she  repeated,  "  Poor  little  thing!  " 

"  The  mother  has  a  nervous  illness.  She  is  always  breaking 
down,  perhaps  under  the  weight  of  the  avalanche  of  dollars. 
I  suppose  Princess  Carelli  is  taking  the  little  lady  out." 

Princess  Mancelli  came  up  with  Mr.  Verrall,  and  the  French- 
man spoke  to  Madame  de  Heder,  who  was  sitting  close  by, 
watching  the  crowd  with  her  light  and  sincere  eyes. 

Since  Dolores  had  begun  to  play  bridge  regularly  she  had 
seen  a  good  deal  of  Princess  Mancelli.  Both  the  Princess  and 
she  were  secretly  seeking  in  cards  a  similar  consolation,  and 
they  met  fairly  often  in  the  houses  of  ardent  bridge  players. 
The  Princess  played  as  a  rule  much  better  than  Dolores,  but  her 
play  varied  little,  whereas  Dolores  was  rapidly  improving  her 
game. 

"  Do  you  like  these  parties?  "  said  the  Princess,  touching  the 
hand  of  Dolores  familiarly. 

"Mrs.  Eldridge's?" 

"  Yes." 

"  Why  not  ?     Surely  they  are  very  pleasant." 

"Yes.  Music,  discussion  —  by  the  way,  why  did  you  flee 
from  the  Donna  Flavia  coterie?" 

"Was  the  discussion  getting  too  hot?"  asked  Verrall. 
"Was  it  like  being  in  Bastion  Four  at  Sevastopol?"  Dolores 
laughed. 

"  Perhaps.  And  I'm  not  very  good  at  argument.  It  is  not 
my  line." 

"  Bridge  is  your  line,"  said  the  Princess. 

"  Do  you  really  think  so?  " 

"  You  are  coming  on  wonderfully.  I  am  getting  afraid  of 
you." 

"  You  play  far  better  than  I  do." 

"  But  shall  I  —  soon  ?  There  are  still  ten  days  before  the 
Giamarcho  tournament.  By  that  time  you  may  be  irresistible. 
And  I  want  that  jewel." 

She  said  this  as  if  in  truth  the  prize  for  the  winner  of  the 
tournament  was  the  last  thing  she  really  wanted. 

"  I  wonder  what  man  I  shall  draw,"  said  Dolores. 


266  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Not  Mr.  Verrall,  I  hope.     He  plays  too  well." 

Verrall  looked  pleased.  He  was  what  is  generally  called 
"  a  good  all  round  man  "  and  had  already  become  a  far  greater 
success  in  Rome  than  Francis  Denzil  had  ever  been. 

"Since  I  have  played  with  you,  Princess!"  he  said. 

"  Have  I  taught  you  so  much  ?  " 

"  But,"  said  Verrall,  *'  I  have  just  heard  from  Prince  Gia- 
marcho  that  one  of  the  best  bridge  players  in  Europe  is  to  be 
in  the  tournament." 

"  Who  is  that  ?  "  asked  Dolores. 

"  Marchese  Montebruno." 

"  Quite  true.  He  has  come  back  unexpectedly  to  Rome,  no 
one  knows  why,"  said  Princess  Mancelli.  "  But  Montebruno 
is  always  a  mj^stery  even  to  his  oldest  friends.  I  have  known 
him  all  my  life,  and  yet  he  never  tells  me  anything." 

"  Is  he  a  fine  bridge  player?  "  said  Dolores. 

"  Oh  yes,  simply  wonderful,"  replied  the  Princess.  "  If 
you  have  the  luck  to  draw  him,  and  play  as  you  do  at  present 
even,  the  jewel  is  yours." 

"  The  cards  might  be  against  us." 

"  You  would  win  all  the  same." 

People  came  up.  An  Austrian  began  to  sing,  "  Mon  coeur 
s'ouvre  a  ta  vo'ix."  Dolores  made  her  way  to  a  seat  beside 
Lady  Sarah,  who  whispered  a  friendly  greeting  with  her  pecul- 
iar charm  of  manner,  which  had  its  roots  in  the  heart.  They 
sat  together  in  silence  while  the  Austrian  sang.  And  again 
Dolores  looked  at  the  little  doll-like  girl  who  was  to  have  the 
enormous  "  dot."  She  had  found  a  seat  by  Princess  Carelli,  and 
she  listened  to  the  warm  passion  of  the  song  without  the  slightest 
change  of  expression.  Her  bright  blue  eyes  traveled  about  the 
room,  looking  from  one  person  to  another,  and  finally  they 
rested  on  Dolores.  For  nearly  a  minute  the  woman  and  the 
girl  looked  at  one  another.  Then  Dolores  glanced  down.  She 
felt  almost  strangely  repelled  by  "  that  child  "  as  she  mentally 
named  her.  And  when  the  music  was  over  she  turned  to 
Lady  Sarah  with  a  soft  eagerness,  almost  as  to  a  saviour. 

But  who  can  save  another  from  what  is  ordained,  by  the 
Power  outside,  or  perhaps  by  the  Power  inside,  herself? 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  267 


CHAPTER  XXI 

Cesare  Carelli  was  biding  his  time. 

He  was  passing  through  a  strange  period,  which  was  not 
at  all  understood  by  his  men  friends.  It  seemed  to  them  in- 
credible that  Cesare  should  be  without  a  woman  in  his  life 
during  all  these  months.  Yet,  as  they  could  not  discover  her, 
they  were  eventually  obliged  to  conclude  that,  lady  or  cocotte, 
she  did  not  exist.  Some  of  them  chaffed  Cesare.  Others  en- 
deavored to  interest  him  in  some  of  the  pretty,  and  not  too 
virtuous,  women  who  are  perpetually  passing  through  Rome. 
He  took  their  good-humored  chaff  with  good-humor,  even  made 
more  than  once  a  lively  attempt  to  pretend  to  respond  to  their 
endeavors.  But  they  were  all  agreed  at  last  that  there  was 
really  nothing  in  it. 

During  the  long  intrigue  with  Princess  Mancelli  they  had 
understood  their  companion's  situation  very  well.  He  belonged 
to  "  the  Mancelli."  That  was  settled.  They  respected  the 
intrigue,  and  they  all  admired  the  Princess  despite  her  age. 
She  still  had  a  power  of  eliciting  the  worship  of  j'outh  though 
she  did  not  possess  youth.  But  this  long  lying  fallow  of  Cesare 
had  made  them  gossip  a  great  deal  among  themselves. 

Some  one  said  he  had  a  mistress  in  Paris.  But  that  must  be 
a  lie,  because  for  months  he  had  not  gone  to  Paris.  Another 
declared  that  he  had  found  a  lovely  contadina  in  the  country, 
and  had  hidden  her  in  a  cottage  on  the  edge  of  the  Pontine 
Marshes.  But  in  some  mysterious  way  the  "  no  "  of  truth, 
though  not  uttered,  will  often  irresistibly  force  its  way  into 
the  minds  of  men.  And  thus  it  was  with  the  gay  companions 
of  Cesare.     Not  one  of  them  really  believed  in  that  contadina. 

Although  they  sometimes  chaffed  Cesare  they  were  careful 
not  to  go  too  far.  Cesare  was  a  man  who  imposed  a  certain 
respect  on  other  men.  He  seemed  so  thoroughly  master  of 
himself  that  no  man  ever  tried  to  be  his  master,  and  though  he 
did  not  ordinarily  appear  to  be  reserved,  even  his  best  friends 
had  long  ago  learnt  that  he  did  not  choose  to  have  his  life  pried 
into  by  any  one. 

His  absolute  reticence,  never  deviated  from,  concerning  his 
connection  with  Princess  Mancelli  had  taught  every  one  that 
lesson. 

Most  Italian  men  are  secretive,  and  somewhat  mistrustful  of 
others,  and  Cesare  possessed  this  trait  of  his  countrymen.     He 


268  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

was  strong  enough  not  to  take  a  confidante,  and,  if  he  had  a 
secret,  only  considered  it  safe  so  long  as  he  told  it  to  no  one. 

Perhaps,  after  the  rupture  with  Princess  Mancelli,  attended, 
as  it  had  been,  by  scenes  of  despair  and  violence,  of  humiliation 
and  fury,  Cesare  had  needed  these  months  of  quiescence,  which 
seemed  to  his  friends  unnatural.  He  had  passed  through  fires 
and  had  been  burned.  And  the  scars  of  that  burning  he  had 
carried  with  him  into  loneliness  while  the  Princess  went  bravely 
to  meet  her  French  friends  in  Switzerland.  The  summer  after 
their  rupture  Cesare  had  spent  chiefly  in  Lombardy  on  an  es- 
tate of  his  father's,  and  quite  alone  with  the  contadini.  He 
was  supposed  to  be  with  his  people,  because  he  was  in  Italy, 
and  on  Prince  Carelli's  land.  But  the  Prince  and  Princess 
had  been  at  Salsomaggiore,  Vallombrosa  and  Viareggio,  and 
scarcely  at  all  with  their  son  near  Monza.  And  Cesare  had 
been  glad  of  solitude.  He  had  felt  that  he  required  it,  both 
mentally  and  physicall5%  For  he  had  not  won  his  way  out  of 
the  long  intrigue  with  Princess  Mancelli  without  a  great  exer- 
tion of  the  will,  and  without  considerable  moral  suffering.  And 
his  complete  secrecy  in  the  whole  matter  had  cost  him  dear. 
If  he  could  have  told  the  whole  matter  to  a  friend,  a  much 
older  man,  have  explained  his  situation,  have  asked  advice,  have 
been  backed  up  in  his  action  by  an  opinion  that  was  valuable, 
the  solace  would  have  been  great.  Although  nobody  knew  it, 
he  had  had  a  long  inward  struggle  before  he  had  come  to  the 
resolve  to  leave  Princess  Mancelli.  For  years  he  had  secretly 
longed  to  be  free  before  he  had  at  last  claimed  his  freedom. 
Perhaps  he  would  never  have  claimed  it  if  Dolores  had  not  come 
to  Rome.  Almost  certainly  he  would  never  have  claimed  it  if 
he  had  not  been  so  much  younger  than  the  Princess.  His  sense 
of  honor,  and  perhaps  also  his  deference  to  the  traditions  and 
opinion  of  his  set  in  Rome,  might  have  kept  him  dragging  his 
chain.  But  youth  has  its  riotous  energies,  its  hardnesses,  above 
all  its  passionate  desire  to  taste  the  wine  cup  only  the  golden 
years  can  put  to  the  lips  of  a  man.  And  it  has  a  secret  and 
almost  severe  understanding  of  what  is  owed  to  it,  and  of  what 
it  owes  to  itself.  Cesare  knew  that  the  Princess  had  done  him 
a  cruel  wrong  in  seizing  upon  his  ignorant  youth.  She  might 
say  that  Italian  boj^s  were  men  at  the  age  of  eighteen.  But 
had  that  been  true  of  him?  He  had  emerged  from  the  hands 
of  his  English  tutor  to  be  seized  upon  by  this  woman  of  the 
world,  who  was  already  over  thirty,  and  who  knew  life  comnie 
sa  pocke.     He  had  been  but  a  handsome  and  spirited  child. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  269 

She  had  turned  him  into  a  man,  and  by  doing  so,  had  taught 
him  what  she  was,  and  in  what  a  condition  he  was  living.  She 
had  taught  him  that  he  was  in  prison  and  that  she  was  the 
jailor.  It  was  a  long  while  before  he  v\'oke  up  to  the  complete 
understanding  of  the  ugly  truth.  At  first  vanity  blinded  him, 
and  passion  blinded  him,  and  he  honestly  believed  he  adored 
Princess  Mancelli.  He  was  flattered  bej'ond  measure  because 
she  had  picked  him  out,  she  who  was  considered  a  great  ele- 
gante,  who  was  a  leader  of  the  smart  world.  The  good  look- 
ing boy  loves  to  ^are  figura  among  his  comrades,  and  his  mind 
not  seldom  swaggers.  Cesare  was  very  proud  of  himself  at 
first.  He  saw  himself  envied  by  other  men,  and  he  believed 
himself  to  be  enviable.  And  the  Princess  knew  how  to  make 
appeals  that  were  not  to  his  vanity.  She  swept  him  of?  his 
feet  with  her  love.  But  the  time  came  when  he  touched  ground 
again,  the  time  when  he  looked  out  on  the  freedom  of  others, 
when  he  thought,  "  But  why  am  I  not  free  too?  " 

As  so  often  happens  in  an  intrigue,  when  the  woman  is  much 
older  and  more  experienced  than  the  man,  Princess  jMancelli 
was  terribly  jealous  of  Cesare.  Her  jealousy  was  founded  on 
fear,  and  her  fear  was  based  on  reason  and  her  knowledge  of 
life.  She  knew  that  it  might  be  difficult  for  her  to  keep  Ce- 
sare, even  though  she  was  a  charming  and  a  clever  woman. 
She  knew  that  she  might  have  to  suffer.  She  risked  that 
chance.  She  was  a  woman  who  was  ready  to  take  risks  when 
her  heart  spoke.  But,  in  the  beginning,  she  had  not  known 
how  she  was  going  to  love  Cesare.  When  she  knew  all  that 
he  meant  in  her  life,  a  thousand  lives  seemed  suddenly  to  bristle 
up  within  her,  and  every  one  of  them  depended  for  all  its  hap- 
piness on  Cesare. 

Gradually  he  came  to  hate  her  complete  dependence  upon 
him,  which  he  divined.  It  closed  in  the  horizons  about  him. 
It  exhausted  the  air.  It  dulled  the  music  of  life.  It  shut  the 
doors.  Princess  Mancelli's  love  was  so  great,  and  so  essentially 
passionate,  that  it  occasionally  carried  her  beyond  her  clever- 
ness. She  could  not  always  be  clever  with  Cesare,  though  for 
long  she  had  been  clever  even  with  him.  She  had  to  show 
herself  to  him  sometimes  not  as  a  woman  of  the  world,  but 
simply  as  a  woman.  And  her  complete  and  intense  depend- 
ence upon  him  was  as  a  lamp  by  whose  light  he  came  to  perceive 
that  he  was  not  dependent  on  her. 

And  at  last  he  knew  the  wrong  she  had  done  him. 

The  young  men  who  were  his  contemporaries  passed   from 


270  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

one  love  affair  to  another,  or  they  married.  He  heard  their 
talk  in  the  club,  at  the  theater,  in  the  hunting  field.  And  he 
felt  that  always  there  was  a  reservation  in  regard  to  himself, 
when  possible  marriages,  or  flirtations,  or  intrigues  were  dis- 
cussed. He  "  belonged  to  the  MancelH."  He  was  out  of  it 
all.  By  slow  degrees  he  grew  almost  to  hate  the  Princess. 
And  yet  he  was  grateful  to  her,  and  he  was  accustomed  to  her, 
and  he  admired  her,  and  she  knew  how  to  give  him  pleasure. 
But  he  wanted  his  freedom.  He  needed  it.  He  began  to  feel 
as  if  he  had  a  right  to  it,  and  that  in  her  heart  Princess  Man- 
celli  was  perpetually,  almost  furiously,  denying  him  that  right. 

In  times  of  great  stress  people  have  to  act  in  complete  accord 
with  their  natural  characters.  The  character  of  Princess  Man- 
celli  was  essentially  imperious,  and  she  was  not  wrong  in  think- 
ing that  in  her  nature  there  was  something  of  a  granite  texture. 
When  she  became  mortally  afraid  because  she  divined  her  lover's 
secret  and  growing  restlessness,  therefore,  she  sought  to  impose 
herself  upon  him  by  the  force  of  her  will,  to  dominate  him  by 
her  inflexible  determination,  almost  to  sequestrate  him  by  the 
intensity  of  her  love.  She  hid  her  new  softness,  her  cringing 
terror  of  the  woman  who  loves  too  much.  She  showed  the 
woman  who  considers  that  she  has  a  right  to  possess,  and  to 
rule,  because  of  her  attractive  force  and  her  pride. 

This  was  Princess  Mancelli's  natural  way  of  asserting  her- 
self in  a  difficult  moment,  or  period. 

The  other  woman  in  her  seemed  almost  not  herself,  but  she 
began  to  grow  insistent.  Nevertheless,  using  her  will,  deter- 
mined to  be  true  to  herself,  the  Princess  strove  resolutely  to 
hide  this  stranger,  who  yet  was  herself.  When  her  heart  was 
crying,  "  Don't  desert  me!  "  to  Cesare,  her  manner  said  often, 
"  You  are  fortunate  to  have  been  chosen  by  me  as  my  compan- 
ion." In  her  moments  of  abandonment  to  passion  she  was 
fierce,  and  even  in  them  imperious. 

But  .there  were  lapses.  Sometimes  the  fearful,  and  even 
humble  woman  could  not  be  concealed.  Sometimes  the  naked 
truth  of  her  was  shown.  But,  in  the  main,  as  Cesare  grew 
more  restless  under  the  yoke,  the  Princess  sought  to  press  it 
more  firmly  upon  him.  She  knew  that  the  really  clever  woman 
holds  a  man  to  her  by  cords  that  seem  made  of  thistledown.  But 
there  was  the  hardness  in  her  character,  the  pride  in  her  Roman 
blood.  Almost  instinctively  she  rushed  to  find  chains  for  Ce- 
sare's  binding.  The  fight  was  engaged  between  heart  and 
brain,  and  the  heart  conquered. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  271 

And  then  Dolores  appeared  in  Rome. 

The  peculiar  and  almost  romantic  softness  which  was  a  char- 
acteristic of  the  true  Dolores,  the  Dolores  unwarped,  had  made 
a  curious  appeal  to  Cesare.  But  it  had  done  more.  It  had 
shown  him  clearly  the  whole  of  his  manhood.  It  had  taught 
him  that  this  manhood  had  never  been  allowed  free  play.  The 
true  man  ought  to  take,  but  he  had  been  taken ;  to  make  the 
advance  towards  the  sacred  citadel,  but  he  had  been  captured. 
To  his  restlessness  was  added  a  cold  self-contempt.  What  had 
Rome  been  thinking  of  him  all  these  long  j'^ears?  He  saw  him- 
self at  last  as  a  prey,  himself  —  a  man.  It  is  a  man's  business  — 
he  said  to  himself  —  to  conquer  the  woman  he  loves.  But  he 
had  been  conquered  by  a  determined  woman.  With  new  and 
terrible  ej'es  he  now  looked  upon  Princess  Mancelli.  That 
she  loved  him  was  not  enough.  Men  excuse  very  little  in  love 
when  they  themselves  do  not  love.  And  when  a  woman  would 
turn  into  fire,  a  man  often  turns  into  iron. 

Beneath  the  yoke  that  pressed  heavily  upon  him  Cesare  began 
to  turn  into  iron. 

Had  the  Denzils  not  been  in  Rome  Cesare  might  not  have 
been  more  than  strongly  attracted  by  Dolores.  But  when  he 
believed  that  she  was  deserted  —  in  the  sense  of  the  only  real 
desertion  —  by  her  husband,  he  began  to  love  her.  And  from 
this  love  he  drew  the  strength  to  burst  his  bonds,  and  to  obtain 
his  freedom.  And  with  the  bursting  of  his  bonds  he  felt  as  if, 
for  the  first  time,  he  came  fully  into  his  manhood  as  into  a  great 
inheritance. 

He  had  to  rest  with  It,  to  grow  accustomed  to  it,  before  he 
used  it.  The  new  criticism  of  his  Rome,  which,  he  quite  un- 
derstood, must  be  turned  upon  him  because  of  his  treatment  of 
Princess  Mancelli,  did  not  seriously  affect  him.  For  he  was 
free  of  that  other  criticism  which  his  now  conscious  manhood 
had  chafed  under.  They  might  speak  against  him  and  say  he 
was  cruel  now  they  could  no  longer  speak  against  him  because 
he  was  weak.  The  code  of  honor  did  not  permanently  trouble 
him,  not  because  he  was  devoid  of  a  sense  of  honor,  but  be- 
cause, in  his  new  love,  he  realized  how  false  the  world's  stand- 
ard in  that  matter  frequently  is.  And  he  was  not  made  to 
suffer  much  because  he  was  saved  by  the  Princess  Mancelli's 
pride.  She  said  not  a  word  against  him.  And  so  not  very 
much  had  been  said  against  him  in  Rome. 

So  the  months  passed  and  Cesare  lived  with  his  freedom,  and 
his  lack  of  freedom ;  with  his  liberty  of  the  man  who  was  no 


272  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

longer  bound  fast  to  a  woman  by  recognized  ties,  and  his  lack 
of  liberty  of  the  man  whose  heart  cannot  stray  because  it  is  an- 
chored. It  seemed  that  he  dwelt  in  calm,  and  his  companions 
wondered.  And  the  Princess  Mancelli  watched.  And  Sir 
Theodore  Cannynge  began  to  live  in  the  life  at  Frascati. 

About  the  time  of  the  party  at  Mrs.  Eldridge's  at  which 
Dolores  had  seen  the  little  doll-like  girl,  however,  Cesare  be- 
came aware  that  his  mother  was  once  more  beginning  to  "  make 
plans  "  for  his  future.  In  former  days  both  she  and  his  father 
had  spoken  very  plainly  to  him  with  regard  to  matrimony,  and 
had  done  their  best  to  force  him  to  marry.  Repeated  failures 
had  induced  a  long  quiescence  on  their  part.  And  Cesare  had 
ceased  to  fear  their  energies.  He  thought  that  his  obstinacy 
had  conquered  their  hopes,  and  that  they  had  finally  decided  to 
let  him  alone. 

But  now  he  began  to  understand  that  something  had  caused 
his  mother  to  plan  a  fresh  campaign  against  her  only  son's 
celibacy,  and  that  she  was  going  to  conduct  it  with  less  frank- 
ness than  had  attended  her  previous  efforts  to  settle  him  in 
life.  She  said  not  a  word  to  him  about  marrying,  but  one 
afternoon,  in  a  weary  voice,  she  remarked : 

"  It  is  so  tiresome!  I  have  been  obliged  to  promise  to  chap- 
erone  a  girl  to  the  Caltanizetti's  to-night." 

"Have  you,  mamma?  What  girl?"  asked  Cesare,  quite 
unsuspecting. 

"  Little  Ursula  Montebruno.  The  mother  is  ill  as  usual, 
and  Giorgio  came  on  an  embassy  about  It  from  his  cousin." 

"Giorgio  Montebruno?" 

"  Yes." 

"  I  thought  he  was  in  Nice." 

"  No.  He  was  in  here  yesterday.  I  know  Giorgio  so  well 
that  I  couldn't  get  out  of  it." 

"  Povera  mamma!  "  said  Cesare,  kindly,  but  rather  negli- 
gently. 

The  Princess  was  given  to  complaining,  especially  in  the 
family  circle. 

Cesare  did  not  go  to  the  Caltanizetti's,  and  thought  no  more 
of  the  matter  till  he  found  that  his  mother  was  chaperoning 
Donna  Ursula  at  another  party  at  Mrs.  Eldridge's,  and  then 
that  she  had  agreed  to  "  take  the  little  thing  about  "  with  her 
till  the  end  of  the  season,  as  poor  Minna  Montebruno  —  the 
mother  —  was  a  complete  wreck,  and  would  not  be  able  to 
hold  up  her  head  for  months,  in  all  probability. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  273 

"  And  she's  quite  a  nice  little  thing,"  the  Princess  added 
languidly.     "  And  not  a  bit  spoilt." 

"Why  should  she  be  spoilt?"  asked  Cesare,  without  much 
Interest. 

*'  Well,  she's  the  greatest  heiress  in  Italy.  All  the  Mullins 
money  is  coming  to  her." 

"  Really!  "  said  Cesare,  with  an  air  of  complete  indifference. 

He  realized  that  probably  his  mother  was  once  more  plotting 
to  marry  him  to  a  big  "  dot,"  but  it  never  occurred  to  him  that 
IVIontebruno  or  Princess  Mancelli  had  anything  to  do  with  the 
matter.  He  believed  that  the  Princess's  one  desire  was  that 
he  should  never  speak  to  another  wom.an  now  that  he  had  left 
her.  For  he  knew  her  jealousy,  even  to  its  depths.  And  he 
knew,  too,  that  Montebruno  was  an  old,  and  apparently  a  de- 
voted friend  of  hers.  Princess  Carelli  had  no  more  idea  than 
Cesare  of  Princess  Mancelli's  part  in  the  matter  of  Donna 
Ursula.  She  so  disliked  Princess  Mancelli  that  she  would 
have  preferred  to  see  her  son  remain  a  celibate  forever  rather 
than  see  him  marry  because  Princess  Mancelli  wished  it.  But 
it  never  occurred  to  her  that  the  Princess  could  wish  such  a 
thing.  Princess  Mancelli  had,  Princess  Carelli  thought,  tried 
to  ruin  Cesare's  life.  Such  a  woman  could  not  desire  to  see 
the  ruin  pieced  together,  restored,  by  another  woman  or  girl. 
The  fact  that  Giorgio  Montebruno  had  first  put  it  into  Prin- 
cess Carelli's  head  that  Donna  Ursula  might  do  very  well  for 
Cesare  as  a  wife  did  not  wake  the  Princess's  suspicions.  Mon- 
tebruno was  an  old  friend  of  so  many  women  that  his  strange 
affection  for  Princess  Mancelli  was  not  suspected  in  Rome. 
He  looked  quite  incapable  of  a  strong  affection.  And  his  fam- 
ily and  the  Princess's  were  old  and  almost  legendary  allies.  Of 
course  he  was  hereditarily  fond  of  Lisetta.  That  meant  noth- 
ing. And  Montebruno  had  always  been  intimate  with  Prin- 
cess Carelli,  as  he  was  with  nearly  everybody.  He  had  never 
suggested  to  her  that  Donna  Ursula  would  do  for  Cesare.  He 
had  only  deplored  the  perpetual  illnesses  of  his  cousin,  Gia- 
como's  wife,  and  casually  hinted  that  it  was  dangerous  for  the 
greatest  heiress  in  Rome  to  be  so  little  looked  after.  And  he 
had  wondered  whether  Princess  Carelli  would  chaperone  Ur- 
sula to  the  Caltanizetti's,  It  would  be  the  child's  first  party, 
and  it  was  important  she  should  appear  under  good  auspices. 

Princess  Carelli's  mind  had  been  set  going,  like  a  watch.  And 
now  it  ticked  on  vigorously.  Although  she  had  "  given  Cesare 
up,"  she  was  quite  ready  to  make  one  last  campaign  against  his 


274  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

obstinate  celibacy.  And  the  thought  of  little  Ursula's  immense 
"  dot "  roused  in  her  the  strange  and  ugly  avarice  so  often  man- 
ifested by  rich  people.  Besides,  as  she  often  said  with  a  dry 
plaintiveness,  "  In  these  days  of  American  millionaires  no  Ital- 
ian is  rich.  We  are  all  picturesque  paupers  with  lovely  names, 
trying  to  pretend  we  can  afford  the  necessaries  of  life,  when  we 
know  quite  well  we  can't."  So  Princess  Carelli  set  to  work 
with  a  will,  disguised  under  her  habitual  manner  of  languid 
indifference,  to  try  to  carry  into  effect  the  wishes  of  Princess 
Mancelli. 

Women  have  strange  lacunae  in  their  jealousies.  Princess 
Mancelli  had  looked  once  on  the  fair  hair,  blue  eyes,  narrow 
figure  and  fiat  little  head  of  Donna  Ursula,  and  at  once  had 
known  that  she  could  never  be  jealous  of  her.  It  was  as  if 
her  body  had  cried  the  truth  aloud  and  her  soul  had  at  once 
accepted  it  —  on  the  evidence  of  the  body.  It  was  the  way 
Donna  Ursula's  head  went  into  her  neck  that  had  made  the 
Princess  know  she  could  never  be  jealous  of  her.  In  that 
straight  line  there  was  something  cold,  unimaginative,  limited, 
and  hard  in  a  small  way  which  the  Princess  accepted  at  a  glance 
and  without  mental  parley. 

"  Cesare  shall  marry,  and  he  shall  marry  that  doll !  "  she  had 
said  to  herself. 

At  Mrs.  Eldridge's  party  she  had  looked  from  Donna  Ursula 
to  Dolores,  and  she  had  felt  within  herself  two  extremes,  like 
Heaven  and  Hell,  she  thought.  She  had  seen  Cesare  belonging 
to  the  one  —  and  to  the  other,  ice-bound  and  fire-bound.  And 
all  that  was  imperious  and  all  that  was  violent  within  her  had 
risen  up  to  decree  the  marriage  of  the  doll  to  the  man  who  had 
rejected  her  fire.  For  the  first  time  since  Cesare  had  aban- 
doned her  she  felt  again  a  very  faint  thrill  of  the  zest  of  life  at 
her  heart.  She  even  —  for  what  wild  dreams  do  not  flash 
through  the  heart  of  the  woman  who  loves?  —  had  a  quick 
vision  of  Cesare  learning  through  Donna  Ursula  what  he  had 
thrown  away  when  he  broke  from  Lisetta  Mancelli. 

But  Dolores  Cannynge!  When  Princess  Mancelli  thought 
of  Dolores  with  Cesare  she  knew  that  there  were  some  things 
which  no  woman  ought  to  be  made  to  endure,  however  much 
she  may  have  sinned.  And  from  this  time  she  set  Dolores 
apart. 

"  Any  one  but  Dolores  Cannynge !  "  she  said  to  herself,  and 
most  often  when  she  lay  awake  in  the  night.  **  Any  one  but 
Dolores  Cannynge !  " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  275 

Her  woman's  instinct  divined  the  exact  truth  of  her  lover's 
desire.  He  wanted  the  opposite  of  her,  Lisetta  Mancelli.  And 
Dolores  was  her  opposite.  When  they  had  sat  together  in  the 
Palazzo  Urbino  she  had  felt  almost  sternly  conscious  of  the 
power  of  her  nature,  and  of  the  romantic  softness  of  Dolores. 
She  had  known  that  she  had  the  strong  fiber  of  the  ruler.  And 
then  had  come  to  her  the  thought,  "  And  you !  Are  you  not 
born  to  yield,  and  to  be  cherished,  sheltered,  perhaps  wor- 
shiped by  strength  ?  "  And  a  cold  sensation  of  impotence  had 
slipped  through  her.  For  something  had  surely  told  her  in 
that  moment  the  root-cause  of  the  rupture  between  Cesare  and 
herself.  They  were  too  much  akin.  In  both  of  them  was  the 
fiber  of  the  ruler.  Her  imperious  strength  at  last  had  offended 
the  strength  in  her  lover.  He  had  learnt  to  hate  something 
that  was  almost  of  himself  which  he  had  discerned  in  her. 

She  knew  now  how  mad  she  had  been  when  she  had  striven 
to  make  her  yoke  hard  upon  Cesare's  shoulders. 

Princess  Mancelli  was  superstitious.  She  laughed  at  omens, 
but  there  was  something  in  her,  from  of  old  surely  ineradicable, 
which  believed  in  them.  And  Nanna  fostered  this  something. 
Princess  Mancelli  would  have  smiled  had  any  one  hinted  to  her 
that  ignorant  Nanna  could  possibly  influence  her  mind.  But 
so  it  was.  Nanna,  with  her  eyes  of  a  sorceress  and  her  beliefs 
of  Trastevere,  and  her  deep  and  exclusive  love,  meant  a  good 
deal  to  the  Princess.  And  Nanna  believed  in  omens,  and  in- 
deed in  almost  everything  that  was  entirely  unscientific  and 
that  could  never  be  proved  to  be  a  truth. 

As  the  night  of  the  Giamarcho  bridge  tournament  drew 
close  Princess  Mancelli  became  possessed  of  a  conviction.  She 
felt  certain  that  she  and  Dolores  would  find  themselves  oppo- 
nents in  the  final  struggle  for  that  jewel  on  which,  as  she  had 
said  to  Mrs.  Eldridge,  she  had  set  her  heart.  It  was  a  beau- 
tiful jewel,  a  curiously  cut  emerald  in  a  setting  of  jade,  very 
original  and  very  effective.  But  the  Princess  had  quantities 
of  jewels.  She  wanted  this  one  because  she  believed  that  its 
loss  to  Dolores  would  be  ominous.  If  she  and  Dolores  fought 
for  it,  and  Dolores  won  it,  that  would  be  a  bad  omen  for  her. 
In  the  night,  when  she  could  not  sleep,  she  dwelt  upon  this  idea 
till  it  became  almost  an  obsession.  At  one  moment  she  saw 
herself  wearing  the  jewel.  At  another  it  gleamed  in  its  curi- 
ous pale  setting  on  the  long  and  graceful  neck  of  the  woman 
she  had  begun  to  fear.  She  resolved,  with  a  secret  violence,  to 
win  it.     Sometimes  she  said  to  herself  that  probably  Dolores 


276  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Cannynge  and  she  would  not  play  against  each  other  in  the 
tournament.  Lady  Cannynge  and  her  partner  might  be  put 
out  by  another  pair  long  before  the  final  was  reached.  Or  she, 
Princess  Mancelli,  might  draw  an  impossible  partner  and  be 
beaten  in  the  first  game.  The  chances  were  perhaps  against 
her  meeting  Lady  Cannynge  as  an  adversary.  Nevertheless 
she  felt  quite  certain  that  the  fight  for  the  jewel  would  eventu- 
ally lie  between  her  and  Lady  Cannynge. 

She  gathered  together  all  her  force  in  the  resolve  that  the 
Jewel  should  be  hers. 

That  she  played  better  than  Lady  Cannynge  she  knew.  But 
Lady  Cannynge  was  improving  every  day.  Princess  Mancelli 
was  able  to  mark  that  fact,  for  between  the  night  of  the  El- 
dridge  reception  and  the  night  of  the  tournament,  they  played 
together  nearly  every  afternoon  in  one  house  or  another.  And 
each  afternoon  it  seemed  to  the  Princess  that  Lady  Cannynge 
played  a  little  better  than  the  afternoon  before. 

Dolores,  too,  wanted  to  win  the  jewel.  If  she  did  it  would 
mean  a  success,  that  she  had  achieved  something  at  which  she 
had  definitely  aimed.  A  poor  little  aim!  A  poor  little  unmean- 
ing success!  Perhaps  so.  But  it  would  be  something  to 
reach  any  goal.  And  if  everything  she  really  wanted  —  more 
needed  —  was  taken  from  her,  then  she  must  try  and  get  some 
little  thing  for  herself.  A  jewel  in  jade!  She  must  try  to 
get  that. 

She  did  not  tell  her  husband  of  her  small  ambition.  In  her 
heart,  perhaps,  she  was  crying  over  it  as  a  mother,  bereft  of 
her  child,  might  cry  over  the  doll  —  that  could  stay.  She  felt 
Sir  Theodore's  complete  separation  in  mind  from  all  the  things 
in  which  she  was  now  concerned.  She  even  felt  that  with 
every  day  he  moved  further  away  from  her  life.  But  she  made 
no  effort  to  join  him. 

For,  often  she  seemed  to  be  conscious  of  the  movement  of 
the  current  of  her  life,  setting  away  from  all  that  she  needed, 
irresistibly. 

She  tried  to  put  all  her  heart  into  bridge.  She  tried  to  set 
all  her  heart  on  that  jewel. 

On  the  night  of  the  tournament  she  dined  alone  with  her 
husband.  Theo  was  never  at  Frascati  at  night.  But  she  dined 
out  very  often.  She  had  offered  never  to  dine  out,  but  her 
husband  had  begged  her  to  do  as  she  liked  in  words  she  had 
not  forgotten.     He  had  said : 

"  Remember,  Doloretta,  I  shall  never  wish  you  to  give  up 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  277 

anything  that  brings  innocent  pleasure  into  your  life.  I  don't 
think  I  have  anything  of  the  kill-joy  in  me.  I  know  you  un- 
derstand my  occupations  and  duties.  And  I  can  quite  realize 
what  your  pleasures  mean  to  you.  If  I  cannot  always  share 
them  you  must  say  to  yourself,  '  He's  a  good  many  years  older 
than  I  am.'  " 

That  v,-as  the  first  time  Sir  Theodore  had  spoken  of  the  dif- 
ference in  their  ages  as  if  it  must  set  them  apart  the  one  from 
the  other.     The  thought  shot  through  the  mind  of  Dolores: 

"  Is  he  going  to  make  that  an  —  excuse  ?  " 

"  Then  I  will  dine  out  sometimes,  Theo,"  she  had  answered. 
"  The  season  will  soon  be  over." 

*'  Where  are  you  going  to-night,  Doloretta?  "  said  Sir  Theo- 
dore, as  they  sat  down  to  dinner. 

"  To  a  party  at  Princess  Giamarcho's." 

"  You  look  so  mighty  serious,  so  determined,  that  I  fancied 
some  extraordinary  matter  must  be  in  the  wind." 

"  No,"  she  said. 

She  did  not  choose  to  tell  him  just  then  about  the  tourna- 
ment.    He  would  think  it  such  a  paltry  affair. 

"  Is  it  to  be  a  big  party?  "  Sir  Theodore  asked,  with  a  clever, 
but  of  course  utterly  useless  attempt  at  seeming  interested. 

"  I  believe  so." 

"The  Grand  Duke,  I  suppose?" 

*'  Oh  yes.  He  is  going  everywhere.  But  he  is  only  in  Rome 
for  a  fortnight." 

"  I  met  him  In  the  Campagna  to-day,  motoring  with  the  little 
Boccara  —  one  mass  of  extraordinary  veils." 

*'  He  admires  her,  I  believe." 

"  I  nearly  stopped  the  motor  and  begged  her  to  give  us  the 
dance  of  the  seven  veils  in  that  marvelous  setting." 

"  She  would  have  been  delighted.  And  she  dances  beauti- 
fully." 

"  Not  so  well  as  Marchesa though,"  said  Sir  Theodore, 

mentioning  a  very  pretty  woman  who  had  once  made  a  sensa- 
tion in  Rome  by  appearing  as  the  moon  in  a  charity  ballet  at 
the  Teatro  Argentina. 

"  No.     How  is  Theo  getting  on  with  his  fencing?  " 

"  Wonderfully  well  for  such  a  child.  Erdardi  is  delighted 
with  him,  but  far  too  martial  to  say  so." 

"  I  suppose  he  will  soon  be  going  to  school,  won't  he?  " 

"To  school!"  Sir  Theodore  said,  rather  sharply,  as  if  he 
were  startled. 


278  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Or  does  Edna  mean  to  educate  him  out  here?  " 

**  No  doubt  he  will  go  to  school  in  England  eventually.  I 
think  Edna  will  be  guided  by  me  in  the  matter,  as  I  am  Theo's 
guardian.     But  there  is  plenty  of  time." 

Dolores  knew  that  she  had  touched  upon  a  subject  which  al- 
ready had  troubled  her  husband's  mind.  But  something  in 
her  felt  cruel,  and  she  continued: 

"  I  am  sure  Francis  would  have  sent  his  son  to  a  public 
school.     He  was  such  a  thorough  Englishman." 

"  Francis  told  me  of  his  wishes  concerning  Theo  before  he 
died,"  said  Sir  Theodore,  "  And  of  course  I  shall  be  careful 
to  carry  them  out.  But  Theo  is  only  nine.  So,  as  I  said  be- 
fore, there  is  plenty  of  time." 

There  was  a  short  silence.  Dolores  had  realized  how  fond 
her  husband  had  become  of  little  Theo,  how  already  he  dreaded 
the  moment  when  the  child  would  leave  the  home  nest,  and  go 
out  to  be  made,  or  marred,  by  contact  with  others,  with  stran- 
gers who  would  become  his  friends  or  perhaps  his  enemies,  but 
who,  in  any  case,  must  influence  him  for  good  or  for  evil.  If 
she  had  given  her  husband  a  son  —  ah !  how  different  every- 
thing would  have  been !  How  Theodore  would  have  wor- 
shiped her  as  the  mother  of  his  son,  the  giver  to  him  of  the 
great  gift  he  had  always  longed  for!  She  hated  little  Theo  in 
her  husband's  life.  She  could  not  help  it.  Edna  was  little 
Theo's  mother. 

"  What  time  do  you  expect  to  be  back,  Doloretta?  "  said  Sir 
Theodore  at  last. 

"  Very  late,  I  think.     We  are  going  to  play  bridge." 

"Oh!" 

He  helped  himself  to  some  claret. 

"  Should  j^ou  mind  if  Theo  stayed  here  to-morrow  night?" 
he  said,  after  a  minute.  "  He  could  sleep  in  the  little  blue 
room.  He  has  his  fencing  lesson  late,  and  Erdardi  has  a  sort 
of  tournament  for  his  pupils  in  the  evening.  Theo  is  longing 
to  go  to  it,  and  I  thought  it  would  be  better  if " 

"  Of  course  let  him  sleep  here.  I  — -  shall  love  to  have 
him.     Perhaps  Edna  will  come,  too?" 

"  Oh  no,"  said  Sir  Theodore  hastily. 

"  Does  she  never  come  to  Rome  ?  " 

"She  hasn't  as  yet.  And  —  well,  she  told  me  she  couldn't 
come  to  our  apartment  for  a  long  time,  because  of  the  sad  m.em- 
ories  connected  with  it." 

"  I  understand.     That's  very  natural." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  279 

There  was  another  pause.  Sir  Theodore  looked  across  the 
table  twice  at  his  wife.  She  felt  certain  he  had  something  in 
his  mind  which  he  wished  to  speak  of  to  her.  She  did  not 
know  what  it  was.  But  she  supposed  it  must  be  connected 
with  the  family  at  Frascati.  She  was  beginning  to  understand 
a  little  more  every  day  —  sometimes  it  seemed  to  her  every  mo- 
ment—  how  concentrated  Theodore  was  becoming  on  the  Den- 
zils.  Whatever  he  and  she  might  be  talking  of  she  knew  he 
was  thinking  of  them.  And  she  fully  realized  that  the  more 
Theodore  did  for  the  Denzils  the  more  he  would  love  them. 
In  time  Francis's  death  would  perhaps  almost  seem  to  Theo- 
dore the  event  which  had  given  birth  to  his  own  real  life.  Not 
for  a  long  time  could  that  be,  but  Dolores  foresaw  that  it  might 
be  —  at  last. 

Although  Sir  Theodore  evidently  had  something,  probably 
important,  that  he  wished  to  say  he  did  not  say  it.  And  Dolo- 
res put  on  her  cloak  to  go  to  the  Giamarchos'  still  wondering 
what  it  was. 

"  Good-night,  Theo!  "  she  said. 

She  stood  in  such  a  way  that  it  was  impossible  for  him  to 
know  that  she  wished  him  to  kiss  her,  equally  impossible  for 
him  to  be  sure  that  she  did  not. 

"  But  I  expect  I  shall  still  be  up  when  you  come  back," 
he  said. 

"  I  shall  be  very  late,  I  know." 

"Why  so  specially  late  to-night?" 

"  We  are  having  a  bridge  tournament.  And  of  course  that 
takes  time." 

Sir  Theodore  had  come  quite  close  to  his  wife.  And  she 
believed  he  was  going  to  kiss  her.  But  at  her  words  he  made 
a  slight  movement  away  from  her.  It  was  very  slight,  but  it 
meant  a  lost  kiss. 

"  A  tournament!  "  he  said.     "  Well,  I  hope  you  may  win  It." 

As  Dolores  went  down  the  great  staircase  to  get  into  the 
motor  she  felt  almost  as  if  the  expression  of  her  husband's  hope 
had  killed  her  own  desire. 

Did  she  wish  any  longer  to  win  that  jewel? 


28o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 


CHAPTER  XXII 

The  Giamarchos  lived  in  Palazzo  Chlgi  looking  on  Piazza 
Colonna.  They  had  large  estates  in  Tuscany,  and  for  Ital- 
ians were  rich.  The  Prince  was  dull  and  suffered  from  colds. 
And  the  Princess  was  a  poseuse,  a  phenomenon  unusual  among 
Italians.  But  she  was  handsome  and  smart,  and  had  known 
every  one  in  Rome  all  her  life,  having  been  born  a  Lantini,  and 
a  member  of  the  elder  branch  of  that  old  and  famous  family. 
And  she  had  been  admired  by  a  very  great  personage,  appar- 
ently with  the  approval  of  the  Prince,  who  had  influenza  so 
often  that  he  almost  ceased  to  count.  So  a  party  in  Palazzo 
Chigl  was  an  event  which  brought  what  the  Italie  called 
the  "  tout-Rome  "  together,  and  nobody  who  received  an  invi- 
tation refused  it. 

The  apartments  in  Roman  palaces  are  usually  immense,  and 
the  Giamarcho  apartment  was  no  exception  to  the  general  rule. 
Multitudes  of  people  who  were  not  going  to  play  in  the  tour- 
nament put  in  an  appearance,  but  they  were  supposed  to  keep 
away  religiously  from  the  great  room  decorated  with  Flemish 
tapestries  in  which  the  bridge  tables  were  arranged.  The  play- 
ers entered  the  palace  and  disappeared,  while  the  other  guests 
dispersed  through  the  rooms  to  talk,  or  in  a  distant  gallery  lis- 
tened to  Schizzi's  band,  which  performed  in  a  painted  alcove 
decorated  with  flowering  shrubs.  But  details  of  the  progress 
made  in  the  tournament  leaked  out  as  the  night  wore  on,  and 
the  players  who  were  already  put  out  of  the  handicap  emerged 
to  receive  consolation  from  their  friends,  from  Schizzi,  and 
from  an  excellent  buffet. 

Mrs.  Eldridge,  who  played  abominably,  being  too  intellec- 
tual for  cards,  was  the  first  to  come  out  of  the  sacrosanct  room, 
with  her  partner,  Mr.  Belton.  And  they  were  shortly  followed 
by  Countess  Boccara,  In  an  extremely  bad  temper,  with  her 
Grand  Duke.  The  latter  personage  was  taken  possession  of  by 
his  hostess,  while  the  little  Countess  was  quickly  surrounded  by 
anxious  young  men,  full  of  instincts  that  had  surely  descended 
from  the  Good  Samaritan.  She  sat  down  on  a  hard  chair  with 
a  gilded  back,  and  looked  crossly  around  her. 

"Who  Is  going  to  win,  cara  Contessa?"  asked  Prince  Per- 
reto,  who  had  not  entered  for  the  tournament. 

"  Chi  lo  sa?  "  said  the  Countess,  with  a  coldly  bored  intona- 
tion. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  281 

"Well,  but  tell  us  who  has  drawn  whom?"  said  Perreto. 
"  You  were  honored  of  course  by " 

"  Honored !  "  interrupted  Countess  Boccara,  in  a  decidedly 
acid  voice.     "Imagine!     He " 

She  poured  forth  a  catalogue  of  the  Grand  Duke's  mistakes. 
Perhaps  expression  relieved  her  temper,  for  she  eventually  be- 
came a  little  more  amiable,  and  condescended  to  satisfy  the 
curiosity  of  her  circling  admirers. 

"The  Tomtit?  He's  got  Marchesa  Verosti,  and  Hereward 
and  Princess  Bartoldi  are  partners.     They  beat   us   owing  to 

his ■■'■'  the  catalogue  received  additions  and  amplifications. 

"  But  of  course  Lisetta  and  her  partner  are  bound  to  win,  un- 
less Dolores  Cannynge  plays  up  as  she  never  has  till  now." 

"But  who  are  their  partners?  Who  are  their  men?"  ex- 
claimed Carlo  Vitali.  "  Cara  Contessa,  a  flaming  sword  has 
driven  you  out  of  Paradise  to  make  a  Paradise  for  us  poor  mor- 
tals here.     Be  merciful  to  us!     Tell  us  what  is  going  on " 

"  Under  the  tree  of  knowledge,"  interjected  Perreto. 

Vitali  looked  cross.  He  tried  to  shine  and  greatly  disliked 
to  have  his  effects  intercepted.  He  now  felt  that  he  had  been 
about  to  say  what  Prince  Perreto  had  said.  That  this  was  not 
the  fact  did  not  subdue  his  ill  humor.  But  while  he  cast  about 
for  a  mot  Countess  Boccara  became  informing. 

"  Lisetta  has  Verrall  and  Dolores  Cannynge  has  jMonte- 
bruno,"  she  said. 

"A  Homeric  combat!"  said  Perreto,  pressing  his  hands  to- 
gether and  separating  them. 

"  Such  luck  for  both  of  them!  "  Countess  Boccara  continued. 
**  If  only  I  had  had  Montebruno  or  Verrall,  I  must  have  won. 
I  play  ever  so  much  better  than  Dolores  Cannynge,  and  almost 
as  well  as  Lisetta,  quite  as  well  on  my  good  days.  And  to- 
night I  know  I  should  have  been  at  my  very  best.  I  feel  it. 
It  is  too  disgusting." 

"  It  is  your  own  fault,  my  dear  Countess,"  murmured  a 
French  attache. 

"Why?"  she  demanded,  looking  into  his  eyes,  "taking  a 
header  to  bring  up  a  compliment,"  as  an  Englishman  standing 
by  afterwards  described  it  to  a  friend. 

The  Frenchman  held  her  eyes  for  a  moment. 

"  La  joie  fait  pcur.  It  is  your  own  fault  if  His  Impe- 
rial Highness  was  not  able  to  command  all  his  resources 
to-night." 

"  You  always  talk  such   utter   nonsense,   terre-a-terre,"   ex- 


282  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

claimed  the  Countess,  in  a  voice  the  sharp  edge  of  which  began 
to  be  dulled.  "  But  he  certainly  did  play  his  very  worst  for 
some  reason  or  other." 

"  Of  course  he  did!  "  exclaimed  Vitali,  anxious  to  regain  his 
intellectual  position.  "  Cnra  Contessa,  is  it  possible  that  you 
do  not  yet  know  how  —  disturbing  you  are?" 

He  gazed  at  her  waist,  which  was  encircled  by  a  gold  band 
not  very  much  bigger  than  a  bracelet. 

"  In  London  they  would  arrest  you,"  he  added  softly. 

"  Why?  "  asked  Countess  Boccara,  taking  another  "  header," 
this  time  into  Vitali's  black  eyes. 

"  As  a  disturber  of  the  peace,"  he  answered,  speaking  in  ex- 
cellent English. 

Some  of  the  men  began  to  make  small  bets  on  the  result  of 
the  tournament.  Every  one  was  agreed  that  Princess  Mancelli 
and  Verrall,  or  Lady  Cannynge  and  Montebruno,  must  prove 
the  winners,  unless  the  cards  ran  in  an  altogether  extraordi- 
nary way.  The  great  question  was  whether  Montebruno's 
known  skill  would  counterbalance  Princess  Mancelli's  superi- 
ority over  Lady  Cannynge.  When  the  discussion  was  at  its 
height  Cesare  Carelli  came  into  the  room  alone.  He  had  just 
arrived.  Countess  Boccara  saw  him  at  once,  as  she  saw  at 
once  every  young  man  who  came  within  the  range  of  her  vision. 

"  Cesare,  come  here!  "  she  commanded. 

"What  is  it,  Contessa?"  asked  Cesare,  bending  to  kiss  her 
hand,  with  his  air  of  strong  and  manly  politeness. 

"  Which  would  you  bet  upon  to  win  the  bridge  tournament, 
Lisetta  and  Mr.  Verrall,  or  Dolores  Cannynge  and  Monte- 
bruno?" 

She  held  her  pretty  head  slightly  on  one  side.  There  was 
an  almost  monkey-like  expression  of  mischief  in  her  little  sharp, 
but  frivolous,  face,  which  never  looked  thoughtful,  but  never 
looked  stupid. 

The  eyes  of  the  men  fixed  themselves  on  Cesare. 

"  You  know  how  Lisetta  plays,"  Countess  Boccara  added. 

"  Yes,"  said  Cesare  calmly.  "  But  I  don't  know  Lady  Can- 
nynge's  game." 

"But  surely  —  haven't  you  ever  plaved  with  her?" 

"  No,  never." 

"It  doesn't  matter!  Which  will  you  bet  on?  We  are  all 
having  our  little  wagers.     You  lay  one  with  me." 

"Why  not?     What  shall  it  be?'" 

Countess  Boccara  looked  swiftly  round,  to  see  if  all  the  men 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  283 

were  appreciating  her  mischief.  That  some  might  consider  it 
to  be  m  bad  taste  did  not  trouble"  her  at  all. 

*' You  propose  the  terms!"  she  said,  in  a  moment,  turning 
again  to  Cesare. 

"  Oh  no !  It  is  for  you  to  choose  them.  I  am  prepared  to 
fall  in  with  whatever  proposal  you  make." 

"  No,  no !  I  am  sick  of  always  having  my  own  way.  I 
wish  you  to  suggest  a  bet  to  me." 

"  If  I  do  you  will  be  having  your  own  way  once  more." 

*'  How  tiresome  you  are !  I  wish  you  to  have  your  way. 
Bet  on  whichever  couple  you  expect  to  win." 

"  But  if  I  don't  know  anything  about  Lady  Cannynge's 
game !  " 

"  I'll  tell  you.  She  plays  about  a  third  less  well  than 
Lisetta." 

"  I  was  always  a  classic,  never  a  mathematician." 

Cesare  had  assumed  an  expression  almost  as  mischievous  in 
its  masculine  way  as  the  Countess's. 

"What  have  mathematics ?"  she  began. 

But  at  this  moment  from  the  bridge  room  came  Princess 
Bartoldi  and  Hereward  Arnold.  Countess  Boccara  turned 
eagerly  towards  them. 

"  Who  beat  you?  "  she  said. 

*'  Lady  Cannynge  and  Montebruno,"  said  the  Princess,  with 
a  smile,  and  a  charming  gesture  which  seemed  to  say  whim- 
sically that  she  had  no  more  to  expect  from  fate. 

She  passed  on,  but  Arnold,  twisting  his  moustache  with  a 
hand  that  looked  hot  and  angry,  said: 

"  Lady  Cannynge  is  playing  like "  he  paused  abruptl}^. 

*' Comme  le  diable?"  suggested  Perreto. 

"  Exactly !  I  never  knew  her  play  could  be  so  good  as  it  is 
to-night.  Montebruno,  with  his  cold  determination,  must  have 
inspired  her.  We  hadn't  a  chance.  And  yet  the  cards  were 
with  us." 

He  stared  at  Countess  Boccara,  but  it  was  evident  that  for 
once  he  did  not  see  her. 

"  Perhaps  if  I  hadn't " 

"  For  Heaven's  sake  don't  give  us  a  list  of  all  your  mistakes, 
Hereward!"  she  interrupted.  "Now,  Cesare!  Whom  will 
you  back?" 

"  The  Contessa  thinks  Princess  Mancelll  and  Mr.  Verrall 
must  win,"  interposed  Vitali,  speaking  to  Cesare  almost  in  a 
whisper. 


284  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  meant  to  give  Carelli  a  hint  what  to  do  in  order  to  please 
the  Countess.     But  she  overheard  him  and  exclaimed: 

"Don't  interfere,  Carlo!" 

But  Cesare  had  received  his  excuse  to  do  what  secretly  he 
wished  to  do,  and  he  gripped  it. 

"  If  you  think  the  Princess  and  Verrall  must  win,  Contessa," 
he  murmured,  with  gentle  amiability,  "  I  will  bet  against  them, 
of  course." 

"  But  I " 

"  I  will  bet  you  a  hundred  lire  to  fifty,  or  a  thousand  lire  to 
five  hundred,  that  Lady  Cannynge  and  Montebruno  win  the 
prize." 

"  I  never  said  I  thought  Lisetta  would  win ! "  s::id  the 
Countess  almost  viciously. 

"  Contessa !  "  a  small  chorus  of  protest  arose. 

"Will  you  take  my  bet?"  said  Cesare. 

"  Very  well !  A  thousand  to  five  hundred.  But  I 
never " 

"Contessa!  Contessa!"  said  the  chorus,  almost  bouche 
jermee,  and  led  by  Perreto. 

"  A  thousand  to  five  hundred  that  Lady  Cannynge  and  Mon- 
tebruno are  the  winners  in  the  final !  "  said  Cesare,  in  a  firm 
and  inexpressive  voice. 

And  before  the  Countess  could  say  another  word,  he  turned 
and  walked  away. 

"  What  a  monkey  she  is!  "  he  was  thinking. 

Did  she  really  suspect  his  secret?  He  did  not  feel  sure  of 
that.  Probably  she  only  guessed  that  he  admired  Lady  Can- 
nynge's  appearance,  and  wished  to  find  out  if  there  was  any- 
thing behind  her  guess.  He  had  been  so  careful,  had  held  his 
desires,  his  passions,  so  tightly  in  leash.  But  oh!  those  cursed 
watching  eyes  of  the  world ! 

He  entered  a  small,  but  very  high  and  circular  room,  which 
was  used  by  Giamarcho  as  a  smoking-room.  There  was  nobody 
in  it.     He  sat  down  and  lit  a  cigarette. 

This  eternal  prudence !  His  love  for  Dolores  was  accumu- 
lating in  it  as  the  money  of  a  minor  accumulates  during  a  long 
minority.  He  compared  his  secrecy  with  what  he  believed  to 
be  the  almost  blatant  indifference  to  opinion  of  Sir  Theodore, 
and  it  seemed  to  him  that  he  was  as  delicate  as  Sir  Theodore  was 
indelicate  in  action.  Why  was  he  so  restrained  ?  Was  it  from 
fear  of  Lisetta?  What  would  she  —  what  could  she  do  if  he 
showed  his  love  for  another  woman  ?     He  knew,  as  he  sat  there 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  285 

alone,  that  something  in  Dolores  had  inspired  his  caution,  the 
long  restraint  which  was  beginning  to  torture  his  fiery  nature. 
Something  delicate  and  mysterious  in  her  personality  had  made 
him  very  delicate,  very  secret  in  relation  to  her.  He  did  not 
think  she  loved  him.  After  his  experience  with  Princess  Man- 
celli  he  almost  adored  the  soft  aloofness  of  Dolores.  It  set  a 
task  before  him.  He  had  to  win  her.  The  morality  of  the 
whole  question  did  not  trouble  him  at  all.  To  his  hot  blood  it 
seemed  quite  unnatural  that  a  woman  as  young,  and  as  beauti- 
ful as  Dolores,  should  live  a  loveless  life.  It  was  her 
right  to  have  a  lover  if  her  husband  neglected  her  for  another 
woman. 

Every  one  knew  that  Sir  Theodore's  motor  was  forever  tra- 
versing the  Campagna  to  Frascati. 

And  novv-,  at  this  moment,  "  mamma "  began  once  again  a 
matrimonial  campaign  against  him  —  Cesare !  It  was  almost  as 
if  she  had  divined  that  her  son's  heart  had  fixed  itself  —  she 
would  have  said  "again" — on  a  married  woman.  She  was 
there  to-night  with  Donna  Ursula. 

Cesare  moved  restlessly,  knocked  the  ash  off  his  cigarette, 
threw  one  leg  across  the  other.  How  he  longed  to  burst  all  the 
bonds  of  etiquette,  all  the  strands  of  convention,  to  catch  up 
Dolores  in  his  arms  and  carry  her  away  from  the  watching 
eyes,  from  everybody.  The  Pontine  Marshes  came  before  his 
imagination,  the  wild,  the  desolate  places,  the  river  mouth,  the 
long  sea-shore.  He  loved  the  open.  To  have  it  —  with  Do- 
lores ! 

Would  she  beat  Lisetta? 

He,  too,  like  Princess  Mancelli,  began  to  think  of  that  com- 
bat of  cards  as  strangely  important,  began  to  feel  as  if  its  result 
would  be  ominous.  If  Dolores  won  then  Lisetta  was  con- 
quered. Was  she  not  already  conquered  by  Dolores  in  another 
battle?  For  Lisetta  had  fought  for  his  heart,  had  fought  like 
a  tigress  to  keep  him. 

Quite  simply  Cesare  acknowledged  in  his  thought  his  su- 
preme value  in  the  life  of  Lisetta.  He  was  not  specially  con- 
ceited, perhaps,  but  he  knew  very  well  that  most  women  con- 
sidered him,  in  his  youth,  strength,  vigor,  attractive,  desirable. 
He  was  not  inclined  to  self-depreciation.  That  sort  of  thing  in 
his  view  was  unmanly.  He  was  quite  sure  that  a  great  many 
women  in  Rome  secretly  wanted  him. 

He  set  Dolores  apart  from  all  those  women.  He  loved  her, 
but  not  because  she  had  chosen  him  out,  because  she  had  meant 


286  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

him  to  love  her,  because  she  had  wanted  him.  He  had  to 
make  her  want  him.     That  was  partly  why  he  loved  her. 

Soon  the  Roman  season  would  be  over.  All  these  people, 
who  now  were  crowded  together  in  Rome,  would  disperse. 
Where  would  Dolores  go?  And  where  Sir  Theodore?  Would 
the  summer  be  his  —  Cesare's  —  opportunity  ?  That  was  what 
for  long  he  had  been  secretly  hoping.  And  lately  he  had  heard 
a  rumor  that  Cannynge  was  trying  to  get  a  villa  for  the  summer 
at  Frascati.  If  that  were  true  then  surely  his  opportunity  must 
come,  unless  Lady  Cannynge  consented  to  go  to  Frascati  for 
the  villeggiatura.  And  that  was  more  than  any  woman  with 
even  a  trace  of  pride,  would  consent  to  do,  he  supposed. 

Would  the  omen  be  favorable?  Would  Lisetta  be  beaten? 
Cesare  felt  within  him  a  strong  excitement,  almost  boyish, 
which  his  outward  man  did  not  show. 

A  friend  of  his  came  into  the  smoking-room,  sat  down  and 
talked  to  him.  Soon  afterwards  he  got  up,  and  once  m.ore  joined 
the  crowd  in  the  suite  of  drawing-rooms. 

It  was  getting  late,  but  no  one  went  away.  It  seemed  an 
understood  thing  that  everybody  would  wait  the  result  of  the 
tournament. 

More  players  had  come  out  from  the  bridge  room.  Pres- 
ently the  rumor  went  about  that  the  final  was  on,  and  that  it 
lay  between  Princess  Mancelli  and  Verrall,  Lady  Cannynge 
and  Montebruno. 

The  little  world  gathered  in  the  Giamarcho  apartment  pro- 
fessed a  keen  excitement  and,  "  suggestioned  "  perhaps  by  their 
own  profession,  presently  became  genuinely  interested  in,  even 
excited  about,  the  result.  Those  who  had  made  wagers  pre- 
tended lightly  to  tremble  for  their  money.  Several  very  young 
men,  who  clung  to  their  small  means,  began  to  feel  really  anx- 
ious. And  Cesare,  deep  down  in  his  heart,  was  concentrated  on 
the  omen,  though  he  was  pretending  to  talk  to  Donna  Ursula 
Montebruno,  having  been  captured  by  his  mother  quite  cleverly 
and  naturally. 

He  did  not  care  for  the  little  thing.  Her  blonde  freshness, 
her  doll-like  daintiness  did  not  attract  him.  And  her  almost 
hard  self-possession  seemed  to  him  repellent.  But  there  was  an 
odd  little  determination  about  her  which  prevented  her  from 
being  a  nobody,  even  in  his  eyes.  She  seemed  to  him  neither 
Italian  nor  American,  but  a  doll  without  nationality,  who,  how- 
ever, knew  her  own  value,  and,  not  in  a  wholly  vulgar  spirit, 
would  probably  use  her  knowledge  to  gain  any  little  ends  she 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  287 

might  chance  to  have  in  view.  That  he  might  be  one  of  them 
did  not  trouble  him.  She  was  a  doll,  and  he  was  a  strong  man, 
who  had  lost  and  regained  his  freedom.  As  to  his  mother, 
she  had  tried  to  make  him  marry  before  and  she  had  failed. 

Schizzi's  band  played  better  and  better,  and  Schizzi  him- 
self was  induced  by  champagne  to  be  fervent  on  the  violin  as 
only  he  could  be.  But  people  were  distrait.  They  wanted  to 
know  the  result  of  the  tournament.  And  it  was  nearly  two 
o'clock  in  the  morning. 

"  I  can't  stay  any  longer,"  observed  Princess  Carelli,  look- 
ing dark  and  weary,  and  slightly  drawing  down  her  flat  nostrils. 
"  Cesare,  do  go  and  ask  for  the  motor." 

"But  doesn't  Donna  Ursula  wish  to  v/ait  for  the  result?" 
he  said. 

He  knew  what  getting  the  motor  for  his  mother  would 
mean,  probably  at  least  half  an  hour's  hovering  in  the  hall. 
Princess  Carelli  was  fearfully  slow  in  all  her  proceedings.  She 
would  be  in  the  cloak-room  for  ten  minutes,  and  then  would  find 
last  words  to  say  to  innumerable  friends  at  the  top  of  the  stairs, 
probably  at  the  bottom  also. 

"  I  v/on't  mind,"  returned  the  girl,  in  a  cold  soprano  voice. 
"What  does  it  matter  who  wins?  None  of  us  will  get  that 
jewel." 

Cesare  looked  down  at  her  almost  sternly  with  his  large 
black  eyes.  Donna  Ursula  returned  his  glance.  And  he 
thought  that  her  bright  blue  eyes,  though  inexpressive,  compared 
with  most  people's  eyes,  looked  oddly  arbitary.  A  sudden  sharp 
antagonism  against  the  little,  narrow-limbed  creature  was  born 
in  him.     But  he  only  said: 

"  I  will  fetch  your  footman,  mamma.  And  then  I  must  find 
Countess  Boccara.  She  and  I  have  a  bet  on  the  result  of  the 
tournament.  So  we  are  not  able  to  be  so  disinterested  as  you 
and  Donna  Ursula." 

"  But  surely  you  can  take  us  to  the  motor,"  began  Princess 
Carelli,  drawing  out  her  words.     "  Countess  Boccara " 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  slight  stir.  The  band  had 
ceased  playing. 

"  Is  it  finished?  "  said  some  one. 

"  Who  has  won?  "  said  another. 

Then  several  voices,  speaking  together,  exclaimed: 

"Who  has  won?" 

There  was  a  general  movement,  in  which  Cesare  found  him- 
self, quite  naturally,  separated  by  two  or  three  people  from  his 


288  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

mother  and  Donna  Ursula.  He  then  hegan  to  increase  the 
gap  between  himself  and  them  by  his  own  almost  instinctive 
exertions.  Very  soon  they  were  out  of  his  sight.  He  felt  that, 
perhaps  for  the  first  time  in  his  life,  he  had  failed  in  courtesy 
towards  his  mother.  But  she  was  really  maddening  sometimes, 
with  her  plans  and  her  meager  plots.  If  only  she  would  leave 
him  alone!  Suddenly  he  was  conscious  of  an  almost  hot  anger 
against  her  such  as  he  had  never  felt  before,  and  had  never 
thought  to  feel.  It  replaced  something  that  had  been  a  quiet 
amusement  in  his  mind. 

He  wanted  to  be  let  alone.  After  all  his  years  of  close 
bondage  surely  he  had  a  right  to  govern  himself  and  his  own 
life,  if  only  for  a  little  while. 

He  looked  away  to  the  left  and  saw  Dolores  at  some  distance 
coming  slowly  in  his  direction.  And  at  once  he  knew  that  she 
had  won  the  jewel. 

She  looked  rather  tired,  and  there  was  in  her  face  a  sort  of 
strong  excitement,  controlled,  which  made  her  more  expressive 
even  than  usual.  There  was  a  little  red  in  her  cheeks,  her  large 
eyes  were  shining  and  her  lips  smiling.  Yet  Cesare  thought,  as 
he  looked  at  her  drawing  slowly  nearer  and  speaking  to  people 
here  and  there,  he  had  never  before  noticed  how  pathetic  her 
eyes  and  her  lips  naturally  were.  There  was  something  almost 
childish  in  both,  even  at  this  moment.  He  had  heard  people  in 
Roman  society  say  that  she  was  getting  to  look  hard,  and  add 
that  no  doubt  her  husband's  devotion  to  the  Frascati  menage 
accounted  for  that  fact.  But  now  he  said  to  himself  that  Do- 
lores never  could  look  really  hard.  As  she  came  nearer  he 
saw  that  she  was  w^-earing  the  jewel  set  in  jade.  Montebruno 
was  close  behind  her. 

Cesare  made  his  way  toward  her. 

"  I  congratulate  you  on  your  triumph,"  he  said. 

As  he  saw  the  sharp  gleam  of  the  emerald  at  her  throat, 
again  he  felt  as  if  this  victory  were  an  omen. 

"  I  had  Marchese  Montebruno  as  my  partner,"  Dolores  an- 
swered.    "  I  feel  it  is  absurd  for  me  to  receive  congratulations." 

"  But  you  have  been  playing  wonderfully  to-night,  I  hear." 

"  I  believe  I  did  play  my  best." 

She  glanced  round.  Montebruno  was  farther  away  now, 
speaking  to  some  friends. 

"  Marchese  Montebruno  had  an  odd  influence,"  she  said. 

People,  their  curiosity  satisfied,  were  beginning  quickly  to 
disperse. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  289 

"  In  what  way?  "  Cesare  asked  her. 

Dolores  lowered  her  voice. 

"  I  felt  as  if  he  wished  me  not  to  win  although  he  was  my 
partner,  and  that  made  me  play  my  very  best.  He  roused  my 
fighting  spirit." 

Cesare  looked  at  the  two  red  spots  in  her  checks. 

"  You  have  a  fighting  spirit?  "  he  said. 

"  It  seems  so.     I  scarcely  knew  I  had  till  to-night." 

There  was  a  sound  in  her  voice  he  had  not  heard  before. 

**  But  did  Montebruno  play  badly  then  ?  " 

"  No.     He  couldn't.     But  I  think  he  tried  to." 

He  looked  at  her  In  silence.  Perhaps  something  in  his  eyes 
made  her  continue,  rather  quickly: 

"  But  I  mustn't  say  these  absurd  things.  You  will  forget 
them,  I  know." 

"When?" 

"  Now,  please !  " 

"  They  are  forgotten." 

Some  one  spoke  to  her.  She  turned  away  smiling  and  was 
separated  from  him  by  people  who  came  up  to  congratulate  her. 
A  minute  afterwards  he  saw  Princess  Mancelli  saying  good-bye 
to  Prince  Giamarcho.  She,  too,  was  smiling,  and  was  talking 
with  her  usual  completely  self-possessed  animation.  Monte- 
bruno was  now  close  to  her,  looking  cold,  w^ary,  a  man  without 
hope  or  fear.  Cesare  gazed  at  him  Mith  a  new,  almost  hard 
interest.  Was  Lady  Cannynge  right?  Had  Montebruno 
wished  to  bring  about  her  defeat  in  the  tournament,  and  had  his 
instinctive  passion  for  cards,  his  instinctive  skill,  refusing  to  be 
controlled,  asserted  themselves  fn  opposition  to  his  desire? 

Princess  Mancelli  spoke  to  Dolores,  took  her  hand,  pressed 
It,  turned  round  to  go  away.  Montebruno  joined  her.  Just  as 
the  Princess  was  nearing  a  great  doorway  which  led  Into  a 
further  drawing-room  through  which  she  had  to  pass  to  go  to 
the  cloak-room,  she  looked  round  and  met  Cesare's  eyes.  Imme- 
diately she  stopped,  and  beckoned  to  him,  making  also  a  little 
characteristic  movement  of  her  head.  Cesare  went  to  her. 
Montebruno  glanced  at  Cesare,  nodded,  and  walked  very  slowly 
on.  Cesare  took  the  Princess's  hand  and  bent  over  It.  He 
seemed  to  touch  her  glove  with  his  lips. 

"  I  met  Countess  Boccara  as  I  came  out  of  the  bridge  room," 
the  Princess  said. 

"Yes?  "  said  Cesare,  meeting  her  piercing  eyes  steadily. 

"  She  told  me  you  were  kind  enough  to  bet  a  thousand  lire 


290  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

to  five  hundred  against  me.  I  only  wanted  to  thank  you.  Good 
night,  Carelli." 

She  spoke  in  a  level,  unemotional  voice.  And  as  she  finished 
speaking  she  gave  him  a  little  familiar  smile,  and  left  him. 
He  saw  her  join  Montebruno  in  the  further  room  and  walk 
slowly  away  with  him.  They  disappeared  in  the  vista  of  draw- 
ing-rooms.    Cesare  stood  for  a  minute  looking  after  them. 

"Could  Lisetta  hate  me?"  he  thought. 

A  moment  afterwards,  as  he  went  to  find  his  mother,  he 
thought, 

"  Does  she  hate  me?  " 


CHAPTER  XXIII 

When  Dolores  started  for  Palazzo  Barberini  it  was  between 
two  and  three  o'clock  in  the  morning.  She  did  not  know  she 
was  tired.  She  was  strongly  excited,  and  her  excitement  shed 
through  her  a  sort  of  feverish  life,  which  made  the  darkness, 
the  emptiness,  of  sleep's  almost  midmost  hour  seem  vivid  and 
strangely  intense.  She  had  done  what  she  had  meant  to  do.  She 
had  won.  The  jewel  that  was  the  symbol  of  her  triumph  was 
on  her  neck.  She  pulled  off  her  long  glove,  put  up  her  hand, 
unfastened  her  cloak  and  felt  it.  When  she  got  into  the  motor 
she  had  turned  off  the  electric  light.  Now  in  the  darkness  her 
fingers  clasped  tightly  over  the  emerald  and  its  setting  of  jade. 
How  hard  jewel  and  setting  were!  She  thought  they  felt 
ugly.  But  she  kept  her  fingers  upon  them.  And,  almost  imme- 
diately, their  hardness  made  her  think  again  of  Montebruno. 
Why  had  she  told  Cesare  Carelli  of  her  feeling  about  Monte- 
bruno in  the  tournament?  She  knew  he  would  never  let  any 
one  know  what  she  had  said.  It  did  not  occur  to  her  for  a  mo- 
ment to  doubt  him.  Nevertheless  she  was  angry  with  herself 
for  having  spoken  to  him  unguardedly.  But  in  her  poor  little 
triumph  she  had  felt  dreadfully  alone.  In  the  bridge  room  it 
had  seemed  to  her  sometimes  as  if  she  were  fighting  not  only 
her  adversaries  but  also  her  own  partner.  And  when  she  and 
Montebruno  had  won  had  she  not  beaten  three  people?  She 
had  felt  a  hardness  in  her  victory  until  she  had  stood  by  Cesare. 
And  then 

The  motor  stopped  under  the  arcade  of  the  palace. 

As  Dolores  went  up  the  great  stone  staircase,  accompanied 
by  the  footman  who  held  a  little  electric  light,  she  wondered 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  291 

whether  Theodore  would  be  awake  and  know  of  her  late  return. 
Since  he  had  given  up  going  out,  and  she  had  gone  out  so 
much,  they  had  begun  to  occupy  separate  bedrooms.  It  disturbed 
him  when  she  came  back  very  late  in  the  night,  although  he 
never  went  to  bed  early.  She  had  been  the  first  to  suggest  the 
new  arrangement.  And  she  had  done  this  because  she  had  felt 
as  if  Theodore  wished  to  do  it,  but  would  not  for  fear  of  hurt- 
ing her  feelings.  He  had  assented,  but  almost  as  if  reluctantly. 
She  thought  that  his  reluctance  had  come  from  the  fact  that 
she  had  taken  the  initiative  in  the  matter.  But  she  was  not 
quite  sure. 

Perhaps  she  was  determined  not  to  be  quite  sure  of  that. 

As  the  footman  put  the  key  into  the  front  door  of  the  apart- 
ment she  remembered  a  night  when  she  had  sat  waiting  for  her 
husband,  had  called  out  to  him  directly  he  entered.  How  long 
ago  that  seemed !  The  door  shut  behind  her.  She  walked  to- 
wards her  bedroom. 

She  could  have  gained  it  without  going  into  the  green  and 
red  drawing-room,  which  adjoined  her  husband's  sitting-room. 
And  she  had  meant  to  do  so  when  she  came  into  the  hall.  But 
now  she  paused  at  the  turning  of  the  wide  corridor  close  to  the 
entrance  to  the  reception  rooms.  She  felt  as  if  her  husband 
were  still  up,  and  were  not  in  his  bedroom.  After  standing 
still  for  a  moment  it  seemed  to  her  that  she  knew  he  was  sitting 
up.  And,  with  a  mind  peculiarly  alive,  she  recalled  his  man- 
ner at  dinner,  her  conviction  that  he  had  had  something,  prob- 
ably important,  to  say  to  her.  He  had  not  said  it.  Was  he 
sitting  up,  perhaps,  in  order  to  tell  it  to  her  now? 

She  turned  away  from  the  corridor,  and  made  her  way  into 
the  green  and  red  drawing-room.  As  she  switched  on  the  elec- 
tric light  the  painted  ejxs  of  the  Lenbach  portrait  met  hers,  with 
a  scrutiny  that  seemed  fierce.  The  snaky  veins  on  the  almost 
transparent  temples  looked  dreadfully  alive.  She  was  almost 
startled  by  this  old  man,  whose  intellect  was  presented  by  the 
genius  of  the  painter  like  a  writhing  force  taken  from  his 
hooded  basket  by  a  charmer  of  snakes.  What  did  he  want  of 
her?  Or  —  what  did  he  think  about  her  with  his  pitilessly 
acute  old  mind  ? 

She  passed  him,  almost  drawing  her  skirts  away,  opened  the 
door  of  her  husband's  room  and  looked  in. 

She  had  been  right.  Theo  was  still  up.  His  room  was  lit 
rather  faintly  by  two  movable  reading  lamps  covered  with  red 
shades.     By  a  revolving  bookcase,  in  which  he  always  kept  the 


292  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

volumes  he  was  Interested  in  at  the  moment,  he  was  sitting  in 
a  large  and  deep  armchair,  with  his  long  limbs  stetched  out, 
and  his  arms  lying  along  his  body  and  legs,  with  the  hands  just 
touching  each  other.  He  was  not  reading.  His  head,  in  an  odd 
position,  leaned  towards  his  left  shoulder  against  the  back  of 
the  chair.  She  had  a  moment  of  terror,  thinking,  "  Is  he 
dead  ?  " 

Then  she  saw  that  he  had  fallen  asleep. 

He  was  always  a  very  silent  sleeper.  But  Dolores,  approach- 
ing gently,  holding  her  gown  with  both  hands,  could  hear  a 
faint  sound  of  his  breathing.  She  stood  still  and  looked  at 
him;  at  the  brown,  sharply  cut  face,  the  thick  hair  with  its 
silver  threads  lying  almost  in  slabs  along  the  sensitive  forehead, 
the  moustache  and  pointed  beard  which  suited  his  features, 
the  artistic  brown  hands,  the  long  limbs.  And  as  she  looked 
she  put  up  her  hand  again  to  her  neck,  and  touched  the  jewel 
she  had  won  that  night,  and  slowly  her  eyes  filled  with 
tears. 

Sir  Theodore  stirred  slightly,  then  was  motionless  again,  but 
opened  his  eyes,  and  kept  them  open,  looking  straight  down 
at  his  hands  and  limbs.  He  remained  thus  for  perhaps  a  minute. 
And,  during  that  minute,  why  she  did  not  know,  he  reminded 
Dolores  of  a  child.  Then  he  raised  his  eyes,  and  saw  her 
standing  near  him,  and  gazed  at  her  for  an  instant  in  silence. 

"Doloretta!" 

He  moved  brusquely,  drew  in  his  legs,  lifted  his  hands  and 
stood  up. 

"  Doloretta !     Why  —  what  time  is  it  ?  " 

The  childish  look  left  him  abruptly  and  completely. 

"  I  must  have  been  asleep." 

"  Yes,  you  were." 

He  looked  at  a  clock  on  the  high  mantelpiece. 

"Getting  on  for  three.  No  wonder!  Have  you  just  come 
back?" 

"  Yes.     'What  made  you  sit  up?  " 

"What — I  was  reading.     I  got  interested." 

"  So  interested  that  you  slept !  " 

"  Without  knowing  I  was  even  getting  sleepy.  Where's  — 
where's ?  " 

He  bent  down. 

"  Here's  the  book,  by  Jove!  " 

He  picked  up  a  volum.e  of  Carlyle  from  the  floor  and  put  it 
down  on  the  top  of  the  bookcase  beside  his  chair.     The  action. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  293 

perhaps,  brought  him  to  a  full  consciousness  of  circumstances 
and  of  himself  in  them.  For  as  he  straightened  himself  he 
said,  with  a  more  natural  ring  in  his  deep  bass  voice: 

*'  To  be  sure  there  was  a  reason  though!  The  tournament  at 
the  Giamarchos  in  which  you  were  to  play.  How  did  you  get 
on  r 

For  answer  Dolores  came  up  to  him,  put  her  hand  to  one  of 
the  electric  lamps,  and  turned  its  bulb  upwards,  so  that  the  light, 
no  longer  concealed  by  the  red  shade,  fell  over  her  bosom  and 
neck,  and  the  green  jewel  in  its  setting  of  jade. 

"I  won  this!" 

Her  husband  bent,  lifted  the  jewel  from  its  resting  place, 
held  it  and  examined  it  with  the  closely  critical  eyes  of  one 
who  loves  beautiful  things,  and  who  knows  v/hat  is  beautiful. 

"  The  first  prize?  "  he  asked,  in  a  moment. 

"  The  only  woman's  prize." 

"  It  was  well  chosen." 

He  let  the  jewel  go  to  its  place. 

"  It  is  original  and  charming." 

"  I'm  glad  you  like  it." 

"  And  —  you  play  so  well  as  to  beat  all  the  determined 
players?  " 

"  I  had  Montebruno  for  my  partner." 

She  paused,  then  added,  in  a  voice  that  was  rather  hard: 

*'  But  I  believe  I  did  play  astonishingly  well  —  for  me." 

"  I  congratulate  you.     It  really  is  a  triumph." 

I' Isn't  it?" 

"  Some  of  the  women  must  be  hating  you  to-night,  eh!  " 

He  made  a  sound  something  like  a  laugh,  and  turned  It  into 
a  laugh. 

"  I  daresay  they  are." 

She  spoke  with  apparent  cool  indifference. 

"  What  does  it  matter  who  hates  one  so  long  as  one  does 
what  one  wishes  and  tries  to  do?  "  she  added. 

It  was  her  husband's  laugh  which  had  sent  her  those  words, 
the  manner  she  assumed  at  this  moment. 

Sir  Theodore  looked  at  her  sharply,  and  as  if  surprised. 

"  Isn't  that  rather  a  selfish  philosophy?  "  he  said. 

"You  think  so?  I  think  one  must  fight  for  oneself  in  this 
world,  or  one  gets  very  little.  And  one  can't  fight  well  if  one 
is  full  of  sympathy  and  consideration  for  one's  enemies." 

"Who  were  your  enemies  to-night?" 

"  Princess  Mancelli  and  Mr.  Verrall." 


294  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

She  nearly  added  "  and  Montebruno,"  but  she  checked  herself. 
What  she  had  told  to  Cesare  she  did  not  feel  inclined  to  tell 
to  her  husband. 

**  And  you  really  remained  up  because  you  wanted  to  know 
the  result?"  she  added,  with  a  change  of  tone,  which  might 
have  told  him  something  if  he  had  had  ears  for  the  subtleties  of 
Dolores  just  then,  have  told  him  that  a  little  real  interest  from 
him  would  turn  ashes  into  glowing  embers. 

She  really  knew  in  her  heart  that  her  husband  had  sta5'ed 
up  for  some  other  reason.  But  she  longed  for  a  word  from  him 
that  would  prove  her  heart  in  the  wrong. 

"  Naturally  I  wanted  to  hear  how  things  had  gone,"  he 
replied.     "  You  have  won  a  very  beautiful  thing." 

"  Oh  —  yes.     And  a  thing  I  shall  be  able  to  keep." 

"  What  do  you  mean  ?  " 

"  Good-night,  Theo.  I  really  must  go  to  bed.  And  you 
ought  to." 

"  Yes.     Oh,  by  the  way,  Doloretta " 

"Yes?"  she  said,  turning. 

For  she  had  moved  as  if  to  go  out  of  the  room. 

"  The  season  will  very  soon  be  over  now.     Won't  it  ?  " 

"  Yes.  There  are  a  few  things,  the  fete  at  the  Grand,  the 
Concorso  Ippico  —  and  then  I  suppose  we  must  think  of  start- 
ing for  England." 

"  That  is  just  what  I  wanted  to  speak  to  you  about." 

"  Now!  "  she  said,  as  if  surprised. 

And  she  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  clock. 

"You're  tired?     Of  course!     We'll  discuss  it  to-morrow." 

"  No,  I'm  really  not  a  bit  tired.  Only  it  seems  such  an  odd 
time.     But  vdiat  is  there  to  discuss,  Theo?" 

She  sat  down  close  to  one  of  the  lamps.  The  red  light  from 
it  lay  over  her  small  oval  face. 

"  Only  our  plans  for  this  summer." 

She  said  nothing,  but  leaned  back  in  the  great  chair,  and 
put  up  her  hand  to  her  emerald. 

"  But  It  really  is  too  late  — — " 

"  No,  no.     Go  on,  Theo." 

Sir  Theodore  went  to  the  high  mantelpiece,  searched  along 
It  for  some  matches,  found  them,  and  lit  a  cigarette.  He  glanced 
down  at  Dolores.  How  peculiar  she  looked  with  that  light 
on  her  face!  He  felt  almost  as  if  she  were  a  stranger  not  un- 
derstood by  him. 

«  Well "  he  sat  down.     "  I "  he  was  determined  to 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  295 

get  away  from  that  sensation  that  his  wife  was  a  stranger.  "  I 
want  to  hear  your  view's  about  the  summer,  Doloretta." 

"  At  three  o'clock  in  the  morning!  " 

He  heard  her  laugh. 

"  It's  difficult  to  have  any.  Tell  me  yours,  Theo.  What 
date  do  you  propose  for  the  move?  " 

"Move?" 

"  Our  move  to  England  for  the  summer." 

"  That's  what  I  wanted  to  talk  over." 

"Well,  Theo?" 

"  You  see  this  year  things  are  so  changed  —  for  us." 

"Changed!     In  what  way?" 

"My  dear  Doloretta!"  he  spoke  quickly,  in  a  sudden  out- 
burst of  irritation,  which  showed  her  he  was  strung  up,  per- 
haps partly  because  he  had  slept  and  been  awakened.  "  How 
can  you  ask?     By  the  death  of  poor  Francis,  of  course!  " 

"  Oh  —  I  see.     I  beg  your  pardon,  Theo." 

"  I'm  sorry,"  he  said,  realizing  that  he  had  been  cross  without 
much  reason.  "  But  of  course  it  has  made  a  considerable 
change,  not  so  much  in  your  life  as  in  mine." 

"  I  see." 

"  I  have  duties  now  that  I  hadn't  before,  those  children  to 
look  after." 

"  Yes,  indeed." 

"  Before  of  course  I  had  no  one." 

"  Of  course  not." 

"  And  so  I  mustn't  only  think  of  myself  now." 

"  No.     I  quite  see  that." 

"  Do  move  that  lamp  a  little,  Doloretta." 

"Why?" 

"It  throws  such  —  such  an  ugly  light  over  you.  That's 
much  better.  But  I  particularly  wish  to  consult  your  con- 
venience where  changes  might  seem  necessary  In  the  more  im- 
portant matters,  for  Instance  in  regard  to  our  summer  plans.  I 
want  to  be  perfectly  frank,  and  I  specially  want  you  to  be  so 
too.     Then  it  will  all  be  plain  sailing." 

"  Do  you  think  of  altering  our  usual  summer  plans,  then  ?  " 

"  Frankly,  I  do.  I  would  much  rather  not  go  to  England 
this  vear." 

"  Not  at  all  ?  " 

"  I  have  just  been  there,  you  see." 

"For  —  how  many  days  was  it?" 

"  Does  that  matter?  " 


296  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Again  the  Irritation  appeared  In  his  voice  and  manner. 

"  No,  of  course  not.  But  —  then  do  you  propose  to  go  to 
St.  Moritz,  or  Venice,  or  where  ?  " 

Sir  Theodore  made  an  abrupt  movement  in  his  chair. 

"  I  might  as  well  go  to  England  as  to  any  of  those  places. 
My  reason  for  wishing  to  make  an  alteration  in  my  —  In  our 
plans  Is  because  of  the  Denzil  children,  but  chiefly,  most  espe- 
cially, because  of  little  Theo." 

"Oh  — I  see." 

"  Of  course  you  see !  My  dear  Doloretta!  It's  surely  pretty 
obvious.  There's  nothing  very  extraordinary  about  it.  Francis 
specifically  left  his  children  in  my  charge.  What  can  I  do  but 
be  faithful  to  that  charge?  And  this  first  year  specially  I 
feel " 

He  broke  off,  got  up,  searched  for  another  cigarette  and 
the  matches.  While  he  did  this  he  had  his  back  to  his  wife. 
She  watched  him,  sitting  almost  like  a  creature  petrified. 

"  It's  Theo !  "  he  said,  turning.  "  My  responsibility  is  great- 
est towards  the  boy." 

He  remained  standing,  and  thrust  his  hands  into  the  side 
pockets  of  his  smoking  jacket. 

"  Let  me  tell  you,  let  me  try  to  make  you  understand  just 
how  I  feel  in  the  matter." 

"  Yes,  do." 

He  looked  calmer,  more  at  his  ease,  more  natural. 

"  A  woman  of  course  knows  best  about  girls.  But  a  boy  of 
Theo's  age,  the  susceptible  age,  the  age  in  which  character 
has  to  be  formed,  needs  the  influence  of  a  man.  Of  a  father, 
If  possible,  if  there  Is  no  father  of  one  who  stands  In  his  place, 
who  —  who  really  cares  for  the  boy  almost  as  if  he  were  the 
boy's  own  father.  I  wish  to  take  the  place  of  a  father  In  Theo's 
life  —  so  far  as  I  can." 

He  stopped,  flicked  the  ash  from  his  cigarette,  and,  speaking 
rapidly,  developed  to  Dolores,  who  sat  motionless,  his  Ideas  re- 
garding the  aims  a  good  father  should  have,  would  naturally 
have,  for  his  little  son's  advancement,  not  In  the  material,  but 
in  the  moral  sense.  As  he  spoke  he  warmed  up.  Perhaps 
the  night  hour  quickened  his  brain,  excited  his  heart.  He  spoke 
almost  eloquently.  He  showed  unusual  feeling  —  about  little 
Theo. 

Without  being  aware  of  It  he  showed  to  Dolores  strange 
glimpses  of  certain  depths  In  his  heart. 

"This  Is  Theo,  the  father!"  she  said  to  herself  again  and 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  297 

again  while  he  was  speaking.  "  Or,  no!  this  Is  the  shadow  of 
what  Theo  would  have  been  if  I  had  given  him  children.  But 
only  the  shadow  —  only  the  shadow !  " 

At  last  he  paused. 

"  But  I'm  letting  myself  be  run  away  with,"  he  said,  with 
a  short,  almost  shamefaced  laugh.  "  I  only  wanted  to  make  you 
see  why  I  feel  that  this  summer  I  ought  to  stick  to  the  boy. 
Next  year  he  may  have  to  go  to  school.  He  will  be  ten.  It's 
early  of  course,  but  —  there's  time  enough  for  that.  I  should 
in  any  case  want  to  go  to  England  then  to  look  into  the  matter 
of  the  best  preparatory  school  for  him.  But  this  summer  I 
should  wish  —  I  consider  it  indeed  almost  as  my  duty  —  to  re- 
main out  here." 

"  I  see.     I  quite  see." 

"  I  knew  you  would." 

He  spoke  with  almost  warm  heartiness. 

"  Then  you  wish  to  remain  here  in  Rome  all  the  summer?  " 

"  Oh  no.  That  w^ould  be  insufferable.  I  should  propose  to 
do  as  lots  of  the  Romans  do." 

"What's  that?'' 

"  Go  to  Frascati  for  the  villeggiatura/' 

"Oh  — yes." 

*'  The  air  is  delicious  there,  quite  different  from  the  air  in 
Rome.  And  in  summer  the  scenery  is  beautiful.  There  are 
such  masses  of  trees." 

*'  Did  you  mean  to  go  to  the  hotel  ?  " 

"  Well,  I  have  been  thinking  about  a  villa." 

So,  for  once,  gossip  had  justified  itself,  gossip  in  the  mouth 
of  the  little  Boccara!  At  that  moment  Dolores  felt  towards  the 
Countess  Boccara  almost  as  Edna  Denzil  had  felt  towards  her, 
Dolores,  in  that  matter  of  ignorance  and  knowledge  when  the 
verdict  was  given  on  Francis, 

"There  are  very  few  villas  at  Frascati  —  aren't  there?" 
she  said. 

"  Not  many  good  ones.  In  any  case  there  are  always  the 
hotels,  the  Grand  and  the  Tusculum." 

The  warm  heartiness  had  died  away  from  his  manner. 

"What  do  you  think  of  the  idea?"  he  added,  throwing  his 
cigarette  away  into  the  empty  fireplace. 

As  he  spoke  the  clock  chimed.  Dolores  moved,  leaned  for- 
ward, then  got  up. 

"  It's  not  a  bad  one,"  she  said.  "  As  you  say  lots  of  Romans 
spend   the  summer  at  Frascati,     But  —  let's  talk  it  over  to- 


298  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

morrow,  shall  we?  It's  so  awfully  late  now.  And  I  am  be- 
ginning to  feel  a  little  bit  tired  at  last." 

"  Of  course  you  are,  dear,  after  all  your  exertions  at  bridge. 
We'll  leave  it  till  to-morrow.  But  I  wanted  you  to  understand 
the  position  and  just  how  I  feel." 

"  I  perfectly  understand  —  perfectly.  Well,  good-night, 
Theo." 

"  I'm  coming  too.  Go  on,  and  I'll  turn  off  the  lights  and 
join  you." 

Outside  her  bedroom  door  he  kissed  her,  and  hesitated.  But 
she  went  into  the  room  rather  quickly  with  a  "Good-night! 
Sleep  well !  " 

A  cloud  came  over  his  face. 

"  She  doesn't  want  me!  "  he  thought. 

And  he  went  away  to  his  own  bedroom. 

That  night  Dolores  had  a  thought,  recurrent,  persistent, 
vital  as  a  live  thing  that  has  teeth,  that  gnaws.     It  was  this. 

"  If  I  could  give  Theo  a  son !     If  I  could  give  him  a  son !  " 


CHAPTER  XXIV 

Fashion  makes  "seasons,"  and  very  often  makes  them  at  the 
wrong  time.  The  time  decreed  by  fashion  as  most  suitable 
for  a  stay  on  the  Lake  of  Como  is  a  couple  of  months  in  the 
spring  and  a  couple  of  months  in  the  autumn.  In  the  winter 
nobody  wants  to  live  on  the  shore  of  a  lake  hemmed  in  by 
mountains.  And  in  the  green  and  the  lustrous  summer,  when 
the  oleanders  and  the  roses  peep  over  the  balconies  to  see  them- 
selves in  the  cool  green  waters,  people  go  to  Switzerland,  or 
to  take  "  cures."  And  so  in  the  summer,  the  ideal  time  of  the 
year  at  Lake  Como,  the  hotels  are  deserted,  and  the  big  villas 
are  most  of  them  shut  up.  Green  Venetians  oppose  the  sun- 
rays.  But  nobody  is  hiding  behind  them.  The  glorious  gar- 
dens, with  their  willows  leaning  over  mouldering  staircases  and 
balconies  of  mossy  stone,  with  their  red  arbutus  trees,  their 
shining  magnolias,  their  regiments  of  enormous  cypresses, 
their  ilexes,  their  acacias,  do  not  echo  with  voices,  with  the  rip- 
ple of  laughter.  Only,  perhaps,  a  bare-armed  gardener  moves 
slowly  among  the  flowers,  and  gives  water  to  the  smooth  green 
lawns,  or  some  footman  or  groom  in  his  shirt-sleeves  and  with 
sleepy  eyes,  leans  down  to  the  lake  with  his  line,  fishing  for 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  299 

agoni.  The  calm  of  a  siesta  is  over  this  world  of  green  moun- 
tains, green  waters,  green  forests  of  chestnut  trees.  The  foun- 
tains play.  But  few  there  are  to  hear  them.  The  bells  chime, 
but  for  fishermen  not  for  lovers.  The  moon  lifts  her  horn 
above  the  Eastern  hills,  and  hangs  in  a  sky  of  trembling  clear- 
ness her  silver  lamp.  And  the  white  fire  falls  upon  the  shadows 
under  little  Torno,  or  perhaps  upon  the  bowers  of  Cadenabbia, 
and  the  legendary  groves  of  the  Villa  Carlotta.  But  few  boats 
steal  out  to  greet  her  from  the  boat  houses  that  hide  under  the 
green  and  the  perfumed  fleeces  flung  over  them  by  the  gardens. 

It  is  not  the  "  time  "  to  go  to  Como. 

In  the  early  days  of  July,  despite  the  decrees  of  fashion, 
Dolores  arrived  at  the  station  of  Como  with  her  maid,  got  into 
a  fiacre  and  told  the  man  to  drive  her  to  the  Hotel  Villa  D'Este 
at  Cernobbio.  The  maid  and  the  luggage  followed  in  a  motor 
omnibus.  The  heat  was  intense  in  the  town,  and  on  the  de- 
serted piazza  by  the  lake-side  the  sunshine  was  almost  blinding 
in  its  intensity.  But  when  Dolores  stood  on  the  balcony  of  her 
sitting-room,  looking  down  on  the  long  garden  with  its  elabo- 
rate flower-beds,  its  palms,  its  huge  plane  trees,  and  its  roses 
falling  in  showers  over  the  low  railing  which  was  the  only 
barrier  between  the  garden  and  the  water,  she  thought  she  had 
chosen  well. 

Surely  she  would  feel  the  great  peace  of  the  "  empty  time  " 
at  Como  descending  upon  her  spirit.  And  it  would  increase 
as  the  days  went  by.  Soon  every  one  she  knew  would  have 
fled  from  Italy.  Switzerland  would  be  crowded.  But  here  the 
peace  would  be  only  intensified. 

And  Theo  would  soon  be  coming.  Till  he  came  she  would 
be  quite  alone  —  with  a  thought,  the  thought  which  was  like  a 
live  thing  with  gnawing  teeth. 

After  that  night  when  she  had  won  the  bridge  tournament 
she  had  been  quite  definitely  conscious  of  possibilities  within  her 
which,  till  then,  she  had  never  envisaged.  Perhaps  almost 
every  woman  possessed  them.  She  did  not  know.  They  were 
possibilities  connected  with  love  and  its  needs.  They  had  been 
—  as  she  often  thought  —  touched  upon  in  the  discussion  she 
had  heard  between  Donna  Flavia  and  Don  Marco  Turani  at 
Mrs.  Eldridge's.  Was  every  woman  a  potential  donna  de- 
Unquentef  Dolores  sometimes  wondered.  But  usually  she  was 
concentrated  upon  herself,  and  shut  out  the  other  women  and 
their  possible  sins. 

On  the  day  after  her  talk  with  her  husband  in  the  dead  o£ 


300  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

night  little  Theo  had  come  over  from  Frascati  for  the  fencing 
at  Signor  Erdardi's,  and  had  slept  at  Palazzo  Barberini.  For 
the  first  time  a  child  had  stayed  with  them  in  the  apartment. 
For  the  first  time  Dolores  had  seen  her  husband  in  his  own 
home  looking  after  a  child  whom  he  loved.  And  she  had  know'n 
at  once  that  it  would  be  impossible  for  her  to  spend  the  whole 
summer  at  Frascati.  There  are  a  few  things  a  woman  who 
deeply  loves  cannot  do.  Dolores  knew  then  that  the  close  con- 
templation of  Theo  in  the  bosom  of  the  Denzil  family,  would  be 
a  trial  she  was  not  fitted  to  endure  for  long.  Nevertheless  she 
had  made  a  sort  of  compromise  with  herself  and  with  fate. 
She  had  told  her  husband  that  she  would  remain  in  Italy  for  the 
summer,  and  would  see  how  Frascati  suited  her,  but  that  he 
must  let  her  go  to  the  lakes  for  part  of  the  time.  He  had  as- 
sented eagerly,  and  had  said  that  he  would  visit  the  lakes  too. 
Then  he  had  suggested  that  they  should  settle  in  a  villa  at 
Frascati.  Dolores  had  opposed  this.  Secretly  she  had  shrunk 
from  the  definiteness  of  settling  down  In  a  house  of  their  own. 
And  they  had  taken  rooms  at  the  Grand  Hotel,  and  had  gone 
there  together  at  the  end  of  May.  But  the  hotel  had  been 
full  of  people.  Theo  had  got  tired  of  it  directly,  and  Dolores 
had  been  obliged  to  consent  to  his  renting  for  three  months  and 
a  half  a  sort  of  pavilion  with  a  tiny  garden  adjoining  the  Den- 
zils'  home.  She  had  just  come  from  that  pavilion  now  after  a 
fortnight  spent  in  it.  Theodore  had  promised  to  follow  her  in 
a  couple  of  weeks.  He  was  acting  as  tutor  to  little  Theo,  and 
took  his  duties  seriously.  It  had  been  decided  definitely  that 
the  boy  should  go  to  school  In  England  the  following  year. 
Sir  Theodore  had  developed  tremendous  ambitions  for  his  god- 
son, and  was  "  grounding  "  him  in  various  branches  of  knowl- 
edge. Sometimes  it  seemed  to  Dolores  as  if  all  the  ambition 
which  her  husband  had  trampled  on  in  a  moment  of  disappoint- 
ment and  anger  was  reviving,  but  was  centering  Itself  upon 
the  career  of  this  child.  And  she  had  been  almost  amazed  to 
find  how  much  of  the  boy  still  lingered  in  Theodore,  despite 
his  tale  of  years,  his  knowledge  of  the  world,  his  diplomatic 
training.  The  Ineradicable  boy  had  risen  within  him  to  set 
little  Theo  at  his  ease. 

Dolores  had  seen  her  husband  romping  in  the  garden  before 
the  pavilion  with  the  children,  while  Edna  Denzil  looked  on. 

Her  maid  arrived  with  the  luggage.  She  changed  her  gown 
and  went  to  sit  in  the  garden  under  the  mighty  plane  trees. 

How  blessed  was  the  change  from  Frascati.     At  this  moment 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  301 

she  did  not  even  want  her  husband.  She  was  thankful  to  be 
quite  alone.  She  had  left  Theo  in  the  very  midst  of  the  Latin 
deponent  verbs  with  little  Theo.  It  was  an  "  awkward  mo- 
ment "  for  him  to  come  away.  And  now  she  was  glad  he  had 
not  come.  For  she  was  conscious  of  reaction.  What  secret 
misery  she  had  endured  at  Frascati! 

In  Rome  she  had  had  distraction,  and  she  had  not  —  seen. 

At  Frascati  she  had  seen  Theodore  playing  the  father  in  a 
family  of  which  she  was  not  the  mother. 

That  was  too  much  for  Fate  to  demand  of  any  woman  with 
a  nature  such  as  hers,  with  a  love  such  as  hers. 

She  had  fled  from  Frascati,  v/ith  the  excuse  that  her  health 
Imperatively  needed  a  complete  change  from  the  neighborhood 
of  Rome.  And  she  was  supposed  to  be  going  back  with  Theo- 
dore in  quite  a  short  time.  But  she  did  not  mean  to  go  back. 
She  did  not  mean  ever  to  set  foot  in  that  pavilion-like  house 
with  the  little  garden  again.  The  undercurrents  of  the  familiar 
life  there,  she  felt  sure,  would  sweep  her  to  some  sad  act  if  she 
returned.  Rome  —  yes !  Frascati  —  never  again !  She  v/ould 
find  some  natural  excuse. 

A  tall  and  stalwart  lad  passed  by  the  seat  where  she  was 
resting,  walking  with  the  bold  and  supple  gait  of  one  who  lives 
In  the  open  air  and  is  perpetually  exercising  his  body.  He 
wore  white  ducks,  and  a  white  jersey,  which  exposed  his  copper- 
colored  arms.     Dolores  called  to  him. 

"  Are  you  a  boatman?  " 

"  SIssIgnora!  "  he  said,  saluting  her. 

"  Take  me  out  In  a  boat,  will  you?  " 

From  that  moment  Dolores  began  almost  to  live  on  the  water. 
She  was  seeking  —  strange  irony,  vehemently  seeking!  —  calm 
of  spirit.  Perhaps  she  would  find  It  there.  She  glided  over 
the  sheltered  green  waters,  lustrous,  silken  almost,  In  the  golden 
heat  of  the  mornings,  In  the  trembling  magic  of  evening  hours, 
sometimes  in  the  romantic  stillness  of  night.  Often  she  talked 
with  Silvio,  the  boatman,  more  often  she  vi-as  silent  under  the 
orange-colored  awning  among  the  white  cushions.  Now  and 
then  she  took  the  light  oars  and  rowed,  while  Silvio,  sitting 
sturdily  upright  in  the  place  of  honor,  with  the  tiller  ropes  in 
his  big,  hard  hands,  steered  the  boat  to  the  places  she  loved  best ; 
to  the  dark  green  shadows  under  the  wall  of  Villa  Volpi,  to 
the  Madonna  of  Villa  Pcdraglio  who  seemed  to  smile  among 
her  roses,  to  Villa  Pllnlana  with  Its  waterfall.  Its  giant  cypresses, 
its  pathos,  almost  its  stern  bitterness,  of  old  and  broken  romance. 


302  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

But  always  a  thought  gnawed  at  her  mind.  The  great  silence, 
the  great  beauty  of  this  caressing  nature,  which  lay  about  her, 
which  cradled  her  body,  could  not  still  its  activity,  its  dogged 
persistence.  Often  she  felt  the  terror  of  being  the  powerless 
prey  of  a  thing  that  knows  no  relenting,  that  is  incapable  of 
fatigue. 

But  Theo  was  soon  coming.  Soon  she  would  have  him  to 
herself  in  this  peace,  this  beauty.  Little  Theo  would  not  be 
there  to  take  all  his  attention  from  her.  Edna  would  not  be 
there  to  look  on  at  the  man  and  the  children,  with  gratitude, 
with  approval. 

How  intolerable  the  real  relations  between  Edna  and  herself 
had  been,  though  the  outward  relations  had  been  cordial, 
friendly,  even  intimate !  At  Frascati  Dolores  had  become  quite 
certain  that  Edna  had  grown  into  secret  dislike  of  her.  And 
she  had  shown,  she  had  been  irresistibly  forced  to  show  to  Edna, 
her  unreal  side,  the  woman  of  the  world  who  had  been  devel- 
oped by  concealed  unhappiness. 

And  then  the  mother  must  surely  have  divined  a  dreadful 
fact,  that  Dolores  could  not  like  her  children,  could  not  be 
really  natural,  womanly,  with  them,  especially  with  little  Theo. 
Whether  Edna  knew  why,  Dolores  had  not  been  able  to  deter- 
mine. But  if  Edna  did  know  why  she  had  surely  been  hard,  she 
had  not  cared.  Her  own  great  sorrow  had,  perhaps,  made  her 
indifferent  to  the  sorrows  of  others  for  a  time.  But  Dolores, 
impelled  by  her  secret  jealousy,  had  come  to  doubt  Edna's  abid- 
ing grief  for  the  vanished  husband.  The  great  deeps  faithful 
natures  conceal.  And  Edna  concealed  hers  from  every  one  but 
Sir  Theodore. 

There  were  very  few  people  in  the  great  hotel,  and  there 
was  no  one  whom  Dolores  knew.  She  dined  and  lunched  in 
her  sitting-room,  and  made  no  acquaintances.  After  the  stress 
of  the  Roman  season,  the  anxiety  and  terror  connected  with 
Francis  Denzil's  illness  and  death,  and  the  recent  episode  at 
Frascati,  she  had  needed  complete  emancipation  from  people 
more  than  she  had  known,  and  she  felt  that  it  was  doing  her 
body  good.  But  perhaps  such  complete  solitude  was  not  a 
healthy  thing  for  her  mind.  As  the  few  travelers  on  the  shores 
of  the  lake  began  to  disappear,  afraid  of  the  growing  heat,  as 
the  calm  of  summer  deepened  about  her,  she  did  not  find  that 
calm  spread  through  her  spirit.  For  in  spirit  she  was  too  often 
at  Frascati. 

But  she  tried  to  fix  her  mind  on  the  near  future  when  Theo- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  303 

dore  would  join  her.  They  would  be  almost  alone  together  in 
the  hotel.  She  went  into  Milan  one  day  and  bought  some  em- 
broideries, one  or  two  bronzes,  a  beautiful  pair  of  flower  vases 
of  Venetian  glass.  She  set  about  making  the  sitting-room 
*'  homey."  She  got  a  piano  from  Como,  and  even  telegraphed 
to  Rome  for  some  of  her  husband's  favorite  books.  When  they 
arrived,  she  put  them  about,  drew  up  a  small  table,  pushed  the 
most  comfortable  armchair  into  an  angle  near  it.  That  was 
the  sort  of  corner  Theo  liked  when  night  came  and  he  sat  down 
to  smoke  a  last  cigar,  and  read  a  "bed-book."  She  stood  trying 
in  imagination  to  see  his  long  limbs  stretched  out,  his  head  rest- 
ing against  the  back  of  the  chair,  his  bright,  rather  critical  eyes 
and  his  brown,  long-fingered  hands.  She  even  thought  of  their 
honeymoon,  more  than  ten  years  ago.     Perhaps —  perhaps ? 

The  quiet  daj^s  passed,  and  a  sort  of  fever  of  anticipation, 
of  anxious  desire  woke  in  her.  Everybody  in  the  hotel  knew 
that  the  "  Signore "  was  expected.  The  servants  had  noted 
her  preparations,  and,  with  the  active  sympathy  Italians  of 
their  class  feel  and  show  with  the  hopes  and  fears  of  a  pretty, 
and  kindly-spoken  woman,  were  quite  anxiously  alert  for  his 
arrival.  Silvio  was  specially  on  the  qui  vive.  He  considered 
himself,  in  a  perfectly  respectful  way,  the  particular  friend  and 
adherent  of  the  signora,  and  had  already  been  devising  with 
her  water-excursions  that  would  delight  the  signore's  heart. 
Dolores  had  arranged  to  hire  a  vaporino  belonging  to  the  hotel 
while  her  husband  was  at  Villa  D'Este,  and  Silvio  was  to  be 
allowed  to  take  charge  of  it.  The  day  before  that  on  which 
Sir  Theodore  was  expected  he  had  gone  into  Como  and  bought 
a  quantity  of  little  flags.     Now  the  vaporino  was  gaily  decorated. 

"  I'll  go  into  Como  to  meet  the  signore,  Silvio,"  Dolores 
said.  "  I'll  take  a  fiacre  from  the  piazza  to  the  station  and  back, 
and  we'll  bring  him  home  by  water." 

"  Come  arna  il  suo  signore! "  said  Silvio  to  his  comrades. 
He  wished  he  had  bought  more  flags. 

Sir  Theodore  was  due  to  arrive  from  Milan  a  little  before 
midday.  And  Dolores  had  made  a  plan  for  his  first  evening 
with  her.  After  lunch  Theo  was  to  rest  till  tea  time.  Then, 
flying  all  its  flags,  the  vaporino  would  appear  to  take  them  to 
Cadenabbia.  There  was  a  moon.  They  would  dine  on  the 
boat  coming  back.  Already  she  had  ordered  a  delicious  cold 
dinner.  She  was  going  to  make  the  salad  herself  in  a  way  that 
Theo  was  particularly  fond  of. 

The  day  dawned,  radiantly  clear,  still,  promising  almost  in- 


304  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

effable  glories.  Looking  from  her  balcony  Dolores  saw  the  far 
side  of  the  lake  steeped  in  cool  green  shadows,  the  chestnut 
woods  on  the  higher  spurs  of  the  hills  touched  with  the  pure 
and  youthful  light  of  the  childlike  hour,  which  was  lovely  as  if 
it  had  but  just  fallen  out  of  the  lap  of  the  Gods.  Two  boats, 
one  coming  from  Torno,  one  from  Como,  crept  over  the  wave- 
less  water,  which  looked  mystic,  and  as  if  its  tranquillity  ema- 
nated from  a  soul  that  was  beautiful  and  at  peace.  Under  the 
roses  of  Villa  Pedraglio  a  great  barge  was  being  rowed  slowly 
on  its  way  to  Lecco.  Silvio,  in  rough  blue  clothes,  his  arms 
as  usual  bared  to  the  sun  rays,  sat  sideways  on  a  low  wall  to 
the  left  just  beyond  the  flower-garden,  smoking  a  cigarette  and 
holding  a  fishing  line.  The  gardener  was  carefully  tying  the 
stalk  of  a  climbing  rose  to  the  rail  that  ran  along  the  edge  of 
the  lake.  There  was  a  soft  freshness  in  the  air  that  was  like  a 
benediction,  there  was  a  quiet  over  the  world  that  was  like  an 
answer  to  prayer. 

For  the  first  time  since  she  had  been  at  Villa  D'Este  Dolores 
felt  within  herself  something  that  seemed  closely  to  correspond 
with  that  which  lay  around  her,  something  that  was  not  yet, 
but  that  perhaps  could  some  day  be,  in  complete  accord  with  the 
peace  of  Nature. 

"  I  could  be — "  she  thought.     "  I  could  be  —  if  only " 

And  for  a  moment  a  great  sadness  overcame  her,  and  she  felt 
as  if  she  had  sweetness,  tenderness,  goodness  within  her  and  as 
if  they  were,  perhaps,  becoming  atrophied  because  of  the  numbing 
influence  of  the  circumstances  of  her  life.  Might  they  not 
shrivel  up,  die  out  of  her  altogether,  unless  her  life  became 
different?  Dimly  she  felt  that  it  should  not  be  so,  that  the 
human  being  should  never  be  controlled  by  circumstances,  that 
the  soul  should  be  a  thing  independent,  a  flame  that  retains  un- 
impaired its  quality  whatever  its  surroundings.  What  is  within 
ourselves  makes  us  great  or  small.  Ah  yes!  But  is  not  that 
which  is  within  ourselves  formed  and  transformed  by  penetrat- 
ing influences  from  without?  Dolores  knew  that  she  was  almost 
terribly  susceptible  to  influences.  ^Yas  that  her  fault?  She 
feared  so  sometimes,  and  condemned  herself.  She  never  said  to 
herself  that  it  was  also  her  charm. 

If  only  Theo  would  be  happy  here,  as  Torno  was  happy  now 
in  the  embrace  of  the  pure  and  growing  light !  Surely  he  would, 
he  must  be  happy,  and  so  make  her  happy. 

Her  eyes  filled  with  tears.     She  leaned  forward  over  the  stone 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  305 

he  sat  holding  his  line.  He  looked  at  her  for  a  moment.  She 
remained  motionless.  Then  suddenly  she  started,  and  turned 
her  head,  looking  towards  the  room  behind  her.  He  saw  her 
make  a  gesture  with  her  right  hand.  A  waiter  appeared  hold- 
ing towards  her  a  salver.  She  took  something  from  it,  and  the 
waiter  stepped  back  and  vanished. 

Silvio  felt  a  faint  tug  at  his  line.  He  had  got  a  fish.  When 
he  glanced  up  again  at  the  balcony  he  saw  his  "  padrona,"  as 
he  had  taken  to  calling  Dolores,  violently  tearing  something 
with  both  her  hands.  Fragments  of  paper  fluttered  down. 
She  turned,  and  went  into  the  sitting-room.  He  thought  there 
was  something  very  odd  in  her  movement.  He  threw  his  fish 
into  a  pail  of  water  which  stood  by  him  on  the  shingly  path, 
got  up,  and  went  to  the  place  in  the  garden  where  the  fragments 
of  paper  had  settled.  He  picked  one  of  them  up,  and  knew  it 
for  a  piece  of  a  telegram.  As  he  returned  slowly  to  his  fishing 
he  wondered  if  there  was  anything  wrong.  His  mind  went 
naturally  to  the  great  event  of  that  day,  the  arrival  of  "  II 
Signore."  Was  the  telegram  from  him?  He  lit  another  ciga- 
rette, took  up  his  line,  and  dropped  it  again  over  the  wall  into 
the  water. 

The  vaporbiQ  was  ordered  to  be  at  the  steps  at  eleven  to 
fetch  the  signore.  In  good  time  Silvio  changed  into  his  smart 
white  costume.  He  saw  to  the  many  little  flags.  They  were 
firmly  fastened  and  would  fly  bravely.  He  arranged  the  white 
cushions  in  the  cabin.  Then  he  turned  on  the  motor,  took  the 
wheel,  and  brought  the  boat  cleverly  out  of  the  boat-house  and 
round  to  the  steps.  He  had  not  waited  there  more  than  a 
couple  of  minutes  before  Dolores,  in  a  white  dress  and  hat, 
with  a  white  veil  and  parasol,  and  carrying  a  book,  came  out, 
saluted  him  with  her  usual  kindly  "  Buon  giorno,  Silvio,"  and, 
putting  one  hand  on  his  doubled  arm,  stepped  down  into  the 
boat. 

*'  Will  you  go  into  the  cabin,  signora?  "  he  asked  her. 

"  No.     I'll  sit  outside.     It  is  going  to  be  very  hot." 

"  Davvero!  "  he  answered. 

He  was  about  to  climb  up  on  the  edge  of  the  wood  that  ran 
round  the  cabin,  in  order  to  gain  the  after  part  of  the  little 
craft,  and  set  the  motor  going  again,  when  Dolores  said  to  him: 

"  I'm  not  going  to  Como." 

"Ma  —  ;7  signore!"  he  exclaimed,  in  surprise. 

"  He  isn't  coming." 

Silvio  stared  with  his  big,  bold  eyes. 


3o6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  He  isn't  able  to  come  —  to-day.  I've  had  a  telegram.  So 
I  want  to  go  right  up  the  lake  to  Cadenabbia.  That  will  be 
delightful  in  such  weather.  Take  me  up  along  the  left  hand 
shore,  and  I'll  come  back  by  the  other." 

"  Sissignora." 

Silvio  climbed  up,  and  put  his  hand  on  the  cabin  roof.  In 
a  moment  the  throb  of  the  motor  made  the  boat  quiver  as  if 
with  life,  and  Villa  D'Este  was  disappearing  in  the  golden  dis- 
tance. 


CHAPTER  XXV 

The  telegram  which  Dolores  had  received,  and  which  had  evi- 
dently been  delayed  In  transmission,  w^as  from  her  husband,  and 
was  as  follows: 

**  Theo  suddenly  taken  ill,  fear  blood  poisoning,  cannot  leave 
till  better  news,  very  sorry,  writing  —  Theodore." 

It  had  been  handed  in  at  the  office  at  Frascati. 

Directly  Dolores  had  seen  the  waiter  at  the  sitting-room  win- 
dow with  something  on  a  salver  she  had  known  it  was  a  tele- 
gram from  Theo  to  say  he  was  not  coming.  Her  preparations 
were  useless.  Her  anticipation  had  been  humiliating  and  ridicu- 
lous. When  she  had  torn  up  the  telegram  she  had  gone  in 
from  the  balcony  and  looked  at  the  sitting-room.  Flowers, 
coverings,  bronzes,  books,  those  vases  —  all  for  Theo !  And 
the  corner  where  he  was  to  sit  the  last  thing  at  night,  smoking 
and  reading,  feeling  thoroughly  at  home!  Brusquely  she  went 
over  to  It,  pulled  out  the  armchair,  took  the  books  from  the 
little  table.  Her  cheeks  and  her  hands  were  burning.  And 
her  heart  was  burning,  too,  burning  with  Indignation,  with  a 
sense  of  outrage. 

Even  now,  as  she  sat  in  the  vaporino,  with  the  book  shut  In 
her  lap,  watching  the  shore  flit  by,  the  long  garden  of  Villa 
Volpi,  the  clustered  houses  of  Moltrazio,  of  Urio,  of  Carate, 
the  more  solitary  verge  where  the  road  rises  before  descending 
to  Argegno,  she  was  unable  to  be  quite  reasonable. 

"  He  never  wanted  to  come!     He  never  meant  to  come!  " 

She  was  saying  that  to  herself.  And  she  was  believing  It. 
She  had  been  ousted  from  her  place,  the  only  place  she  cared 
for,  In  Theodore's  heart,  by  little  Theo,  by  these  children,  and 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  307 

? —  she  now  for  the  first  time  definitely  added  this  —  and  by 
their  mother.  Because  she  had  only  given  her  husband  the 
devoted  love  of  a  nature  capable  of  great  devotion,  and  had 
not  given  him  a  child,  she  was  to  be  put  aside  —  oh,  of  course 
in  the  most  gentle  and  natural  —  natural  way!  —  and  left,  to 
what?     To  bridge!     To  skating!     To  —  husks! 

She  trembled  as  she  sat  there  in  the  sun,  while  the  motor 
throbbed  and  the  boat  rushed  on.  And  it  was  anger  that  shook 
her.  She  hated  little  Theo  at  that  moment!  She  almost 
wished ■ 

Argegno  was  passed.  The  great  stretch  of  the  lake,  which 
seems  to  be  guarded  by  far  ofE  Bellagio,  an  almost  fairylike 
town  under  its  climbing  woods,  came  into  view,  with  the  peaked 
and  rocky  mountains  that  suggest  another  land  than  radiant 
and  smiling  Italy.  The  boat  suddenly  swayed  over.  Dolores 
looked  hastily  round,  and  saw  Silvio  clambering  towards  her. 
He  descended  with  a  con  permesso  sat  down  in  the  prow, 
and  took  the  wheel,  turning  his  eyes  towards  the  long  reaches 
between  them  and  Bellagio. 

Dolores  felt  sure  he  had  come  because  of  a  feeling  of  sym- 
pathy with  her.  And  this  touched  her,  and  at  the  same  time 
added  to  her  sensation  of  anger  and  distress,  and  of  acute  humili- 
ation. To  break  out  of  it,  if  possible,  she  began  to  talk  to  the 
lad,  and  she  forced  herself  to  talk  gaily. 

"  Perhaps  I'll  stay  at  this  end  of  the  lake  all  day,"  she  said 
presently,     "  And  come  back  by  moonlight," 

"  But  we  have  not  brought  the  dinner!  "  said  Silvio,  gazing 
at  her  with  a  new  gentleness. 

"  The  famous  dinner!  " 

How  she  had  talked  about  It,  had  enjoyed  ordering  it! 

"  Oh,  I  can  dine  at  Cadenabbia  or  Bellagio  in  one  of  the 
hotels,"  she  said.  "  It  will  be  great  fun.  I  shall  love  to  come 
home  by  moonlight." 

Alone ! 

They  passed  the  most  beautiful  villa  on  the  lake,  an  ex- 
quisite garden  running  almost  wild,  surrounding  two  houses 
and  a  little  campanile  set  in  a  solitary  place  on  a  point,  with 
terrace  rising,  dropping,  to  terrace,  with  old  wall  of  carx^ed 
and  weather-kissed  stone  above  old  wall,  with  willows  pouring 
their  green  tresses  —  almost  as  if  in  a  libation  —  over  damp 
and  mossy  stairways  of  stone  leading  down  into  the  lake  depths. 
This  villa  had  for  long  years  been  deserted  by  its  owner,  and 
perhaps  partly  for  that  reason,  had  acquired  a  look  of  romance 


3o8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

which  was  poignant  almost  as  a  soft  and  beautiful  cry  in  a 
solitary  place.     As  Dolores  saw  it  she  thought: 

"  To  have  seen  that  with  Theo  —  loving  me!  " 

And  all  the  hardness  of  her  anger  melted  into  a  sort  of 
anguish  such  as  she  had  never  felt  before  with  so  much  poig- 
nancy, the  anguish  of  yearning  uselessly  for  something  the 
heart  knows  could  satisfy  it  absolutely. 

Silvio,  seeing  that  his  padrona  was  gazing  at  the  deserted 
villa,  offered  to  turn  and  run  the  boat  Into  its  tiny  harbor. 

"  It  is  beautiful!  "  he  exclaimed,  in  his  loud  and  manly  voice, 
waving  his  brown  arm  towards  the  willows. 

"  Not  now!  "  she  answered,  controlling  her  voice  with  some 
difficulty.     "  I  will  get  out  at  Cadenabbia." 

"  Sissignora!  " 

"  Perhaps  I'll  hire  a  boat  there,  and  go  for  a  row." 

"  Va  bene,  signora" 

Dolores  felt  that  she  must  escape  from  the  lad's  silent  sym- 
pathy, although  she  was  secretly  grateful  for  it.  She  must  be 
either  quite  alone,  or  with  some  stranger  whom  she  had  never 
before  seen,  who  knew  nothing  at  all  of  her.  And  she  must 
not  allow  herself  to  think  too  much  of  what  happiness  is  in  the 
world.  Such  thought  was  dangerous.  It  might  in  time  act 
upon  the  spirit  like  a  slow  poison  upon  the  body. 

Silvio  brought  the  boat  in  close  to  the  wooden  landing  stage 
at  Cadenabbia. 

"  Go  and  have  your  lunch,  Silvio,"  Dolores  said  to  him,  as 
she  got  out. 

"  Sissignora.     What  time  will  you  want  to  start  back?" 

She  hesitated,  looking  across  the  smooth  water  bathed  in  the 
burning  rays  of  the  sun,  then  up  at  the  rocky  turrets  of  the 
mountains  behind  Bcllaglo  and  Lecco.  And  she  felt  that  at 
this  moment  of  her  life  it  would  be  well  for  her  to  have  a  long 
afternoon  of  solitude. 

Cadenabbia  looked  almost  utterly  deserted.  There  was  not 
a  boat  on  the  lake.  It  was  the  hour  when  people  eat,  or  enjoy 
the  siesta. 

"  I  don't  think  I'll  go  till  quite  the  evening,  Silvio.  Don't 
bother  about  me  at  all.  But  be  here  about  six,  and  then  I'll 
fix  the  hour  for  starting." 

He  looked  at  her  rather  inquiringly.  No  doubt  he  felt  him- 
iself  to  be  almost  In  charge  of  her.     However  he  only  said: 

"  Va  bene,  signora"  took  off  his  cap,  and  caught  up  his 
jacket  from  the  boat. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  309 

"  I  will  go  and  eat  maccheronl,"  he  added. 

And  he  went  off  along  the  straight  road  by  the  houses,  swing- 
ing his  big  shoulders. 

When  he  had  disappeared  Dolores  felt  a  strange  loneliness 
suddenly  descend  upon  her.  It  connected  itself  vaguely  with 
the  great  heat,  seemed  almost  to  be  part  of  the  heat.  Behind 
her  was  the  Hotel  Bellevue,  with  its  big  and  glittering  windows, 
its  rows  of  balconies.  Two  idle  waiters  were  staring  out  at 
her.  An  old  lady,  probably  German,  with  a  red,  petulant-look- 
ing face,  and  a  hat  of  mustard-colored  straw  set  awry  on  her 
head,  which  was  coiffee  au  diable,  spied  upon  her  from  one  of 
the  balconies,  with  an  air  of  fixed  attention.  Dolores  turned 
quickly,  and  walked  down  the  road  that  leads  to  the  Villa  Car- 
lotta. 

She  was  not  hungry.  She  resolved  not  to  lunch,  but  pres- 
ently to  have  tea  at  the  latteria. 

She  met  no  one  in  the  road,  but  saw  a  few  tourists,  Germans 
and  English,  mostly  of  the  female  sex  and  obviously  unmar- 
ried, sitting  —  almost  squatting  — ■  in  arbors  by  the  water,  with 
an  air  of  idleness  that  was  brutal.  With  heavy,  lack-luster 
eyes  they  stared  at  her  as  she  passed.  Colazione  was  writ- 
ten all  over  them.  They  were  abandoned,  like  derelicts,  to  the 
processes  of  digestion.  Before  the  great  gate  of  the  Villa  Car- 
lotta  she  paused.  The  fountains  v/ere  playing  in  a  marvel  of 
roses.  She  watched  the  shining  water  for  a  moment  —  the  liv- 
ing water  —  and  she  remembered  a  sentence  once  spoken  to  her 
by  a  woman  friend,  no  longer  young,  "  I  must  have  affection 
from  somebody.  Affection  to  me  is  the  water  of  life."  For 
years  she  had  not  thought  of  that  sentence.  Yet  all  those  years 
her  memory  had  kept  it  close,  like  a  treasure  laid  up  in  lavender. 

*'  Barca,  signora!  " 

An  old  boatman,  with  a  wrinkled  face  almost  the  color  of 
mahogany,  was  addressing  her.  She  looked  at  him,  and  de- 
cided at  once.  He  would  not  sympathize,  would  not  want  to 
talk.     He  would  just  be  there,  rowing  like  an  old  machine. 

She  stepped  into  his  comfortable  boat. 

About  a  quarter  to  four  that  afternoon  Dolores  began  to  feel 
a  longing  for  tea.  She  told  her  old  machine,  and  he  suggested 
taking  her  to  a  latteria  which  stands  absolutely  alone  on  a  knoll 
above  the  lake.  Near  it  is  a  blue  grotto,  which  is  shown  to 
visitors  almost  as  solemnly  as  the  grotto  at  Capri.  As  they 
were  drawing  near  to  it,  but  were  still  at  some  distance,  Dolo- 
res saw  a  very  small  black  object  a  gooa  way  off  in  the  water. 


3IO  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

She  looked  at  it  for  a  minute,  then  looked  away.  But  pres- 
ently she  turned  her  eyes  towards  it  again.  They  were  nearer 
to  it  now,  and  she  saw  it  was  moving.  She  began  to  watch  it 
with  a  faint  interest.  Was  it  a  dog?  But  why  should  a  dog 
be  so  far  out  in  a  lonely  part  of  the  lake?  Could  it  be  a  man, 
a  swimmer?  She  began  to  think  it  must  be.  Now  she  fol- 
lowed the  progress  of  the  dark  object  with  a  certain  quickening 
of  interest,  even  with  a  dawning  feeling  of  admiration.  If,  as 
seemed  nearly  certain  to  her  now,  it  was  the  head  of  a  swim- 
ming man,  he  was  a  very  fine  and  intrepid  swimmer,  and  must 
have  come  a  long  distance.  For  there  were  no  houses  along 
this  part  of  the  lake.  Only  far  off  the  closed  villa  of  an  Eng- 
lishman stood  at  the  green  foot  of  the  lonely  mountain  side. 
And  in  the  distance,  beyond,  was  the  little  latteria.  And  no 
boat  accom.panied  the  moving  head  —  if  it  was  a  head.  From 
whence  had  it  come?     And  whither  was  it  going? 

The  old  machine  had  his  back  to  it  as  he  rowed  with  a  slow 
stroke  that  never  varied,  staring  slightly  sideways  with  his  small 
beryl-colored  eyes. 

"What's  that?"  Dolores  asked,  pointing  towards  the  black 
thing.     "  It  must  be  a  man,  I  suppose,  swimming." 

The  boatman  slowly  turned  his  head,  and  took  a  long  and 
steady  look. 

"  Yes.     It's  a  swimmer,"  he  said,  in  a  rather  hoarse  voice. 

"Where  is  he  going,  do  you  think?" 

The  old  man  shrugged  his  shoulders. 

"  Where  we  are  going,  maybe." 

But  he  stared  very  hard  at  the  moving  head,  and  an  almost 
fierce  keenness  came  into  his  old  eyes.  He  pulled  harder  at  the 
oars.  Very  soon  Dolores  could  see  a  movement  in  the  lake,  as 
the  swimmer  cleaved  his  way  through  it  with  strong,  almost 
machine-like  strokes,  then  a  gleam  of  white,  as  his  shoulders, 
rising  a  little  out  of  the  water,  caught  the  sunrays,  then  a  regu- 
lar, flail-like  motion  of  his  arm,  as  he  changed  from  the  breast 
to  the  side  stroke. 

"  What  a  pace  he  goes!  "  she  murmured. 

There  was  a  concentrated  strength  and  energy  in  the  man's 
swimming,  which  made  her  heart  leap  for  a  moment,  and  took 
her  out  of  that  sadness  which  still  seemed  connected  with  heat, 
with  shining,  and  with  the  emptiness  of  the  hour  of  siesta.  The 
glory  of  human  force  took  hold  of  her  woman's  mind,  as  it  can 
never  take  hold  of  the  mind  of  man,  giving  a  peculiar,  almost 
tingling,  thrill  to  it.     In  that  recurring  flail-like  movement  of 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  311 

the  arm  she  seemed  to  see  a  symbol  of  mascuh'ne  strength,  will, 
determination,  and  dogged  vigor. 

"  It  must  be  the  Principe  Carelli,"  observed  the  old  boat- 
man. 

"Principe  Carelli!"  said  Dolores. 

**  Don  Cesare,"  said  the  boatman.  "  He  comes  here  some- 
times in  the  summer,  and  very  few  swim  like  he  does." 

He  pulled  hard,  evidently  with  the  intention  of  joining  the 
swimmer,  looked  round  again,  and  said: 

"Si,  si!     It  is  Don  Cesare!" 

"  Go  to  the  latteria  now,  please.  I  want  my  tea,"  said 
Dolores. 

A  small  spot  of  red  showed  on  each  of  her  cheeks.  She  sat 
back  under  the  awning,  and  did  not  look  any  more  towards  the 
swimmer.  The  old  boatman  lay  on  his  oars  for  a  moment, 
and  the  beryl-colored  eyes  observed  Dolores  with  a  curiosity 
that  showed  plainly  a  long  knowledge  of  certain  ways  of  the 
world. 

Then  he  pulled  towards  the  latteria, 

"  Don  Cesare  will  be  landing  there,  maybe,"  he  observed, 
in  his  hoarse  voice. 

Dolores  nearly  told  him  to  turn  and  go  back  to  Cadenabbia. 
But  that  look  in  his  eyes  deterred  her.  When  she  landed  at 
the  foot  of  the  knoll,  behind  which  rose  the  mountain  side,  the 
dark  head  of  the  swimmer  was  slowly  traveling  towards  the 
shore,  and  as  she  walked  up  the  path  to  the  little  house,  she 
met  a  man  carrying  a  towel,  a  panama  hat  and  a  small  leather 
suit  case.  On  seeing  her  he  smiled,  and  turning  his  head, 
shouted : 

"  Maria!  a  lady  is  coming!  " 

An  ample  woman,  rustic  and  kind  in  appearance,  and  browned 
by  the  sun,  came  out  of  the  house  in  response  to  the  shout,  and, 
with  smiles  and  salutations,  conducted  Dolores  to  a  seat  under 
the  trees,  received  her  order,  and  walked  cheerfully  away  to 
carry  it  out.  Before  she  entered  the  house  she  shaded  her  eyes 
with  a  small  brown  hand,  on  which  shone  a  heavy  gold  ring, 
and  gazed  down  the  lake. 

Dolores  laid  her  parasol  and  her  book  on  the  wooden  tea- 
table  and  sat  still.  Below  her,  on  the  farther  side  of  the  knoll, 
she  saw  a  smart  boat  lying.  In  it  was  sleeping  a  boatman  clad 
in  scarlet  and  white.  The  Italian  flag  flew  at  the  stern. 
Warmth,  silence  wrapped  the  whole  place,  all  the  scene  that 
lay  before  her  eyes.     The   sleeping  boatman,   whose  attitude 


'312  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

and  whose  thrown  back  head  suggested  a  sort  of  ecstasy  of  re- 
pose, gave  to  the  picture  a  strong  "  note  "  of  stillness,  a  value 
which  increased  the  effect  made  by  Nature.  Hushed  activities 
were  there.  The  sun  and  the  hour  had  sealed  the  fountains. 
Only  that  swimmer  symbolized  by  his  determined  stroke  the 
tense  energies  of  life.  Dolores  could  not  see  him  now,  but  she 
felt  him  cleaving  his  way  towards  her  through  the  element  that 
can  destroy,  but  that  supported,  made  possible,  his  bold  and 
serene  activity. 

And  though  she  sat  motionless  in  the  midst  of  the  peace,  the 
exquisite  solitude,  she  knew  not  peace,  nor  could  she  feel  any 
charm,  or  sadness,  of  solitude. 

Presently,  it  seemed  to  her  soon,  she  heard  a  distant  sound  of 
voices,  and  she  knew  that  the  swimmer  had  gained  the  land. 
The  brown-faced  woman  came  out  of  the  house  bearing  a  tray, 
and  set  before  her  a  large  china  teapot,  sugar,  cream,  milk  in 
a  separate  jug,  a  big  cup  and  saucer,  bread  and  butter,  and  a 
huge  currant  cake. 

Dolores  thanked  her  in  an  absent-minded  way.  She  still 
heard  those  voices. 

"  Don  Cesare  is  coming,"  said  the  woman,  standing  beside 
her.     "  He  has  swum  all  the  way  from  the  Villa  Sirena." 

"Where  is  that?" 

"At  Bellagio.     He  is  a  swimmer!" 

"  Thank  you." 

The  woman  smiled. 

"  Very  few  swim  as  he  does." 

She  returned  to  the  house. 

Dolores  began  her  tea,  always  listening  to  the  voices.  Soon 
they  grew  louder,  drew  nearer.  She  heard  steps  crunching  on 
the  stones  behind  her.  But  she  did  not  look  round.  The  noise 
of  the  steps  ceased,  and  she  heard  a  voice  that  she  knew  say,  in 
Italian: 

"  Si,  si.     Out  here  under  the  trees!  " 

Then  for  a  moment  there  was  a  complete  silence.  She  knew 
that  Cesare  Carelli  was  standing  before  the  house  and  looking 
towards  her.  But  still  she  did  not  turn  round.  At  last  he 
said: 

"Lady  Cannynge!" 

Then  she  looked,  and  saw  him,  saw  him  standing  in  a  white 
linen  suit,  with  a  Panama  hat,  the  brim  turned  down  over  his 
eyes,  a  lighted  cigarette  In  his  hand.  His  dark  face  was  ex- 
traordinarily fresh  and  energetic.     His  figure  seemed  to  exhale 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  313 

force,  youth,  but  not  the  youth  of  the  boy,  the  stronger,  even 
more  vital  youth  of  the  man  who  is  young.  "  Noon  not  dawn !  " 
was  her  quick  thought. 

Cesare  came  up  to  her.  He  was  evidently  somewhat  sur- 
prised to  find  her  there,  but  —  Dolores  saw  it  at  once  —  he 
was  not  astonished.  He  took  her  hand,  and  held  it  in  his,  and 
she  felt  all  the  freshness  of  the  lake  in  his  hand. 

"  How  delightful,  and  how  extraordinary,  to  come  upon  you 
here  and  all  alone !  " 

"Then  you  were  the  swimmer!" 

"  And  you  the  lovely  lady  in  the  boat !  " 

"  Did  you  notice  me  ?  I  watched  you  for  a  long  time.  I 
thought  at  first  you  were  a  dog." 

She  laughed. 

"  May  I  have  tea  at  your  table  ?  "  he  asked. 

"  Of  course." 

He  caught  up  a  chair,  put  it  opposite  to  her,  and  sat  down. 

"  But  you  see  nothing  there !  "  she  said. 

"  I  like  seeing  —  nothing,"  he  answered.  "  And  how  did 
you  come  from  Villa  D'Este?  By  the  steamer  from  Cernob- 
bio?" 

Dolores  put  down  the  big  cup  which  she  was  Just  lifting 
to  her  lips. 

"  You  knew  I  was  at  Villa  D'Este?  " 

*'  Of  course.  It  is  better  for  you  to  be  there  than  at  Fras- 
cati." 

He  said  the  last  words  with  a  sudden,  and  almost  intense 
seriousness,  like  a  man  who  had,  or  believed  himself  to  have, 
a  right  to  judge  of  what  was  good  and  evil  for  her. 

"  Oh,  I  think  Frascati  is  delicious  in  summer,"  said  Dolores, 
quickly  and  decidedly. 

•'But  you  are  at  Villa  D'Este!" 

A-t  this  moment  the  woman  came  out  with  Cesare's  tea.  He 
spoke  to  her  familiarly,  calling  her  Maria,  and  inquiring  for 
mem.bers  of  her  family.  She  made  a  voluble  and  delighted  re- 
ply.    When  she  had  gone  he  said: 

"  From  a  child  I've  been  on  the  lake.  My  uncle,  Prince 
Camara,  has  the  Villa  Sirena  at  Bellagio." 

He  looked  at  her  and  then,  with  a  slight  smile,  repeated: 

"  You  are  at  Villa  D'Este." 

**  Only  for  a  few  days.     I'm  expecting  my  husband." 

"  He  hasn't  come,  then?  " 

"  He  was  to  have  arrived  this  morning." 


314  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  know." 

"  But  how?  "  she  exclaimed,  almost  with  a  touch  of  anger. 

"  It's  very  simple!     I  was  at  Frascati  three  days  ago.     I  had 

been  with  my  mother  in  Lombardy "  He  suddenly  drew  his 

dense  black  eyebrows  down  and  looked  almost  brutal  for  a  mo- 
ment. "One  must,  you  know,  sometimes!  I  thought  you 
were  still  at  Frascati,  that  you  had  even  rented  a  villa  for  the 
summer.  And  I  went  over  —  to  see.  It  was  a  glorious  day. 
As  I  was  coming  into  the  Piazza  Romana  I  encountered  a  pic- 
nic party  going  to  Tusculum,  children  on  donkeys,  two  ladies 
In  a  pony  carriage,  and  your  husband." 

"  The  Denzils  of  course !  "  said  Dolores,  trying  to  speak  care- 
lessly.    "  So  that  was  how  you  knew !  " 

"  Yes.     I  went  with  them  to  Tusculum." 

"You!" 

A  sudden  hardness,  almost  a  bitterness,  transformed  her  face. 
Cesare  saw  before  him  a  new  Dolores.  And  Dolores  herself, 
a  moment  later,  sat  wrapped  in  hidden  wonder  at  her  own  pos- 
sibilities, even  at  her  own  present  reality.  How  she  must  have 
counted  upon  this  man's  secret  loyalty  to  her  to  have  felt  that 
he  was  a  traitor  because  he  went  to  Tusculum!  It  was  as  if 
she  had  broken  a  commandment,  and  was  no  longer  the  woman 
she  had  been. 

"  They  asked  me  to.  The  smallest  girl  asked  me,  insisted 
on  my  coming." 

"Oh  —  Viola!"  She  forced  a  smile,  and  then  was  able 
really  to  smile.     "  She  is  devoted  to  men." 

"  Evidently.     And  men  will  certainly  be  devoted  to  her." 

"  So  my  husband  told  you  he  was  coming  here  ?  " 

"  Yes.     That  was  why  I  was  swimming  just  now." 

Dolores  looked  at  him,  and  her  eyes  were  a  question. 

"  I  thought  he  was  here  —  at  Villa  D'Este  with  you,  I 
mean." 

"  Why  are  you  not  having  your  tea?  " 

"  I  wanted  —  I  hoped  perhaps  you  would  pour  it  out  for 
me. 

She  drew  his  teapot  slowly  towards  her. 

"  I  must  get  something  hot  into  me,"  he  added,  with  his 
most  English  manner.  "  It's  a  fairly  long  swim  from  Bellagio. 
But  it  has  done  me  good." 

She  poured  out  the  tea  and  gave  him  the  big  cup.  He  felt 
that  she  had  forgiven  him  for  having  gone  to  Tusculum.  How 
good  that  she  had  made  of  it  a  matter  for  forgiveness! 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  315 

"  Worlds  of  good!  "  he  added,  as  he  put  the  cup  to  his  lips. 

And  he  smiled  at  her  as  he  drank.  Between  the  cup  and 
the  drawn  brim  of  his  hat  she  saw  his  black  e5'es  gleaming  with 
light.  At  that  moment  their  fires  seemed  strangely  concen- 
trated, as  sunraj's  are  by  a  burning-glass. 

"  There  is  nothing  like  exercise  when  you  want  to  ride  your 
mind  on  the  curb,"  he  said,  putting  the  cup  down,  and  slightly 
stretching  his  legs  in  a  way  that  made  her  feel  the  happy  lassi- 
tude of  his  body  after  the  fine  effort  it  had  made. 

"  This  is  better  than  Rome,  better  than  Tusculum,  and  how 
much  better  than  my  father's  place  near  Monza  with  little 
Donna  Ursula!  "  he  exclaimed,  with  an  almost  boyish  sound  in 
his  voice. 

"  Is  Donna  Ursula  there?  " 

"  Oh  ves.     You  know  mamma  wants  me  to  marry  her.'' 

"You  — Donna  Ursula!" 

The  little  doll,  cold,  observant,  bright-eyed,  narrow,  rose  up 
before  Dolores. 

Cesare  leaned  a  little  forward  over  the  table. 

"You  don't  think  we  should  suit?" 

"  I  don't  know  that  I  can  tell." 

"  Mamma  says  we  are  made  for  each  other,  to  supply  each 
other's  deficiencies." 

"  Perhaps  she  is  right." 

"  She  is^  if  ice  can  supply  the  deficiency  of  fire,"  he 
said,  in  a  tone  that  vibrated  with  contempt,  and  almost  with 
indignation.     "  Do  you  think  it  can?  " 

His  eyes  were  asking  her  many  more  questions  than  his  lips. 

"  No,"  Dolores  said. 

Cesare  looked  suddenly  happier. 

"  You  understand  things  that  poor  dear  mamma  has  no  con- 
ception of.     You  understood  why  I  took  that  long  swim." 

"  How  do  you  know  that?  " 

"Don't  you?" 

"  Perhaps.  I  am  not  quite  sure.  No,  you  needn't  explain. 
It  doesn't  matter  whether  I  do  or  not." 

"  To  me  it  does." 

"  I  was  thinking  of  myself." 

"  Were  vou?     Do  you  often  think  of  yourself?  " 

"  Very  often." 

She  paused,  then  added,  with  a  sort  of  sad  seriousness,  almost 
like  a  child  who  has  just  realized  something  distressful; 

"  I'm  afraid  I  am  an  egoist." 


3i6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so." 

"  You  can't  know." 

"  You  do  not  look  like  an  egoist." 

"  Do  move  your  chair  so  that  you  can  see  the  view,"  she  said. 
**  I  quite  hate  to  see  you  with  your  back  to  it  all." 

He  got  up  at  once  and  put  his  chair  sideways,  at  one  of  the 
ends  of  the  little  table. 

"  Don't  you  care  for  beauty,  for  Nature?  "  she  added,  almost 
critically. 

"  Yes,  very  much,  in  my  way,"  he  said. 

"What  way  Is  that?" 

"  I  like  mountains  because  one  can  climb  them,  water  be- 
cause one  can  swim  In  It.  I  love  the  open,  for  a  gallop  on  a 
good  hunter,  like  my  Irish  mare,  Medusa;  the  marshes  for  the 
duck  shooting." 

"And  sunsets  and  moonlight  nights?"  she  asked,  almost  ob- 
stinately, and  with  the  air  of  one  who  Is  getting  an  adversary 
in  argument  Into  a  corner. 

"  A  moonlight  night  —  5^es,  I  could  care  for  that,  I  could !  " 
He  pushed  his  hat  a  little  upwards  and  backwards.  '"  To-night 
there  will  be  a  moon,"  he  said.  "  By  the  way,  you  have  never 
told  me  how  you  came  from  Villa  D'Este." 

"  I  came  In  a  vapor ino." 

"All  alone?" 

"  Yes  —  of  course.     At  least  I  had  Silvio." 

"Who's  Silvio?" 

"  A  very  nice  boatman." 

"SI?" 

'He  drank  some  more  tea  with  frank  relish,  put  down  the 
cup,  and  said: 

"  We  had  regular  romping  at  Tusculum.  Your  husband 
was  almost  like  a  boy,     I  didn't  know  him  before." 

"  Why  don't  you  eat  anything?  " 

"  I  never  eat  In  the  afternoon.  That's  a  fine  little  boy  of 
Mrs.  Denzil's." 

"  Yes.     He's  111  now,  poor  little  chap." 

"111?" 

"Very  111.  I'm  afraid.  That's  —  that's  why  my  husband 
couldn't  come.  He  telegraphed  at  the  last  moment.  You  see 
he  Is  the  child's  guardian,  and  stands  to  him  almost  in  the  place 
of  a  —  I  mean  he  feels  a  certain  responsibility." 

"Does  he?" 

"  Of  course  he  does.     They're  afraid  It  Is  blood  poisoning." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  3^7 

"  That  sounds  bad." 

"  I  shall  have  a  letter  to-morrow  explaining." 

"  And  if  it  is  bad  news  will  you  have  to  go  back  to  Fras- 
cati?" 

"I?     Of  course  not.     What  good  could  I  be?  " 

**  I  wonder  what  the  news  will  be  ?  "  said  Cesare,  after  a 
pause.     "  Will  you  do  something  for  me,  Lady  Cannynge  ?  " 

"W^hatisit?" 

"Will  you  let  me  know  the  news  when  you  get  it?  He's 
such  a  fine  little  boy.     I  should  like  to  hear  how  he  gets  on." 

"  I'll  send  you  a  card  then." 

"  To  the  Villa  Sirena,  Eellaglo.     Thank  you." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  searching  directness.  She  had  eyes 
that  were  incapable  of  looking  actually  piercing.  Almost  al- 
ways there  seemed  to  be  in  their  cloudy  depths  a  softness.  He 
thought  of  her  nickname,  "  Gazelle." 

"  And  anyhow  you  will  stay  on  at  Villa  D'Este  for  a  time?  " 

"  I  suppose  so.     I  think  so." 

She  had  lowered  her  eyes  now  and  spoke  with  some  faint  hesi- 
tation. 

*'  And  quite  alone,  if  Sir  Theodore  can't  get  away?  " 

"I  —  I  like  solitude.     It  rests  one." 

She  knew  by  his  expression  —  she  was  again  looking  at  him 
—  that  he  had  seen  through  her  barricade  of  a  lie,  had  seen  at 
least  something  of  the  truth  crouching  behind  it. 

"  I  don't,  for  too  long.  And  I'm  alone  at  the  villa.  My 
uncle  is  at  Salsomagglore." 

"  Why  do  you  stay  there  then?  " 

"  I  thought  I  would  come.     I  think  I  will  stay  a  little  while." 

His  eyes  now  told  Dolores  plainly  the  truth,  which  already 
she  knew  though  it  had  never  been  spoken,  though,  till  to-day, 
she  had  never  wished  it  to  be  spoken.  Till  to-day!  Since 
Cesare  had  come  up  to  her  from  the  water,  since  she  had  felt 
the  freshness  of  the  lake  in  his  hand,  since  he  had  told  her  of 
that  meeting  which  had  ended  in  his  joining  the  party  to  Tus- 
culum,  a  reckless  feeling  had  grown  within  her,  had  stolen 
through  her,  penetrating  —  it  seemed  —  through  every  vein  in 
her  body.  She  had  noted  it,  with  a  startled  thrill,  when  her 
mind  for  a  moment  had  glimpsed  this  man's  defection.  And 
at  that  moment,  too,  she  had  fully,  nakedly  realized  that  she 
looked  upon  the  Denzlls  now  wholly  as  her  enemies,  enemies  of 
her  happiness,  her  peace,  enemies,  perhaps,  even  of  her  safety. 
And  in  the  reaction  from  that  momentary  fear  of  defection  she 


3i8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

almost  —  still  was  it  not  only  "almost"?  —  wished  Cesare  to 
say  plainly  that  he  was  on  her  side,  that  there  was  a  feeling  in 
his  heart  for  her  which  ranged  him  on  her  side,  not  for  a  mo- 
ment but  forever.  Stricken  by  the  feeling  of  being  unnecessary 
something  within  her  wailed  to  be  needed,  then,  at  that  very 
moment.  Again  and  again,  as  she  sat  by  the  tea-table,  she  had 
seen  the  family  party,  the  children  on  their  donkeys,  Mrs.  Mas- 
singham  and  Edna,  Theodore,  Cesare,  mounting  up  into  that 
eyrie  of  the  sun  above  the  vast  Campagna  and  the  shining  of  the 
sea.  She  had  seen  Theodore  romping  "  almost  like  a  boy." 
Although  she  still  seemed  to  feel  the  touch  of  Cesare's  strong 
hand  on  hers,  in  her  relation  to  him  at  this  moment  there  was 
nothing  of  the  physical.  Her  body  was  not  speaking,  although 
she  felt  as  if  it  independently  knev»^  something  that  was  strange, 
and  that  she  wished  it  did  not  know.  She  Vv^as  wholly  mental 
and  affectional  in  her  desire  to  be  needed  here  and  nov/,  to 
have  that  need  stated  in  words.  She  was  ashamed  of  her  desire, 
she  wished  to  strangle  it,  to  know  it  dead.  But  her  shame  had 
no  power  over  it.  And  Cesare  must  have  seen  it  in  her  eyes, 
in  her  features,  perhaps  even  in  her  hands  and  her  whole  atti- 
tude. 

"  Dolores!  "  he  said,  leaning  towards  her,  laying  his  arm  on 
the  table,  with  his  brown  hand  feeling  of  hers.     "  Dolores '* 

She  saw  his  face  change  completely,  into  a  sudden,  broad 
smile  which  showed  his  big  white  teeth. 

"  Maria!  "  he  called  out,  tapping  his  fingers  idly  on  the  table 
in  a  way  that  was  nonchalant.  *'  I  have  only  six  soldi  with  me 
for  both  the  bills." 

The  padrona  of  the  latteria  was  coming  out  of  the  house 
with  the  conto. 

He  exchanged  some  lively  chaff  with  her  in  Italian.  But 
when  she  had  gone  to  get  some  change  for  a  ten-lire  note  he  said 
to  Dolores: 

"  I  am  going  to  dine  with  you  to-night.  You  must  let  me. 
There  is  no  one  —  but  —  no  one  —  in  the  hotel  at  Cadcnabbia. 
And  I  will  com.e  down  the  lake  with  you  — ■  not  to  Villa  D'Este. 
You  can  put  me  ashore  at  Carate  or  Urio.  I'll  walk  back,  or 
row.  I'll  get  back  somehow.  Do  not  say  no.  I  must  do  It. 
I  will  do  It." 

And  to  that  last  assertion  of  his  will  something  In  her  as- 
sented, as  if  it  were  Irresistibly  forced  to  assent. 

"  Let  him  tell  me!  "  that  was  her  thought.  "Then  it  will 
all  be  over.     I  will  explain,     I  will  send  him  away.     AvA  It 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  319 

will  all  be  over.  But  I  must  hear  him  tell  me  that  he  wants 
rae. 

Was  it  a  reckless,  a  wicked  voice  within  her?  She  did  not 
think  so  then.  It  seemed  to  her  the  natural  voice  of  woman, 
of  every  woman  who  had  lived  as  she  had  lived,  who  had 
been  treated  as  she  was  being  treated,  who  needed  what  she 
needed. 

Of  any  wrong  to  Cesare  she  did  not  think  at  all.  There 
was  a  force  in  him  that  prevented  her,  then,  from  thinking  it 
possible  she  could  wrong  him.  She  felt  too  weak.  And  he 
looked  and  seemed  so  strong. 

"  Will  you  come  in  my  boat?" 

"  No,  no." 

"May  I ?" 

"  No." 

*'  Then "  he  took  off  his  hat. 

Without  it  he  looked  different,  a  little  older  than  before,  a 
little  graver.  Something  in  his  appearance,  thus  changed,  sent 
a  doubt  into  the  mind  of  Dolores. 

"  You'd  —  I  think  you'd  better  not  come  to  Cadenabbia  to 
dine,"  she  said. 

*'  I  am  coming,"  he  answered. 

"  Perhaps  I  may  not  be  there.  I  may  go  down  the  lake  be- 
fore dinner." 

He  only  looked  firmly  into  her  eyes,  drew  his  thick  brows 
down,  and  repeated: 

*'  I  am  coming." 

Then  Dolores  left  him  and  went  to  her  boat. 

Soon  she  heard  behind  her  a  regular  plash  of  oars.  She 
opened  the  book  in  her  lap  and  began  to  read.  And  she  seemed 
to  be  reading  steadily  till  the  boat  touched  land  opposite  to  Villa 
Carlotta. 

At  a  few  minutes  before  six  Silvio  saw  her  coming  towards 
where  he  stood  near  the  vaporino. 

"  I  think "  she  began. 

She  stopped. 

**  Sisslgnora?  "  said  Silvio. 

She  looked  at  the  lake.  The  water  seemed  if  possible  even 
calmer  than  before,  as  if  it  had  sunk  into  a  dreamless  sleep  as 
the  evening  drew  on.     The  sky  was  absolutely  clear. 

"  I  think  I'll  start,"  she  said,  very  slowly. 

"Now?" 

"  Will  It  be  a  very  lovely  night,  do  you  think,  Silvio?  " 


320  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

**  SIssIgnora.     Look  at  the  sky!" 

He  waved  his  arm. 

"  How  beautiful  it  is!  "  he  exclaimed  in  his  loud  voice,  pro- 
nouncing the  Italian  words  with  the  accent  of  the  North. 

"You  think?" 

"  You  should  stay,  signora,  and  return  with  the  moon." 

"•  You  think  so  ?    Then  —  I  will." 

"  At  what  time,  signora?  " 

"  Half-past  eight,  or  nine.     No,  half-past  eight  punctually." 

"^  Va  bene,  signora." 

Silvio  looked  after  her  steadily  as  she  went  away.  His  quick 
Intelligence  had  grasped  the  difference  in  her,  a  difference  arisen 
since  the  morning  hours. 

"  La  signora  e  un  po'  strana!  "  was  his  mental  comment. 

At  seven  Cesare  arrived  in  the  smart  boat  from  Bellaglo. 
He  went  at  once  to  the  Hotel  Bellevue  to  look  at  the  visitors' 
list.  There  were  very  few  names,  and  none  of  Italians  whom 
he  knew.  And  there  were  no  English  names.  He  spoke  to 
the  head  waiter  and  arranged  to  have  a  table  in  a  quiet  corner 
of  the  restaurant.  Then  he  went  out  to  find  Dolores.  He 
knew  that  he  would  find  her. 

She  was  sitting  in  the  little  garden  on  the  far  side  of  the  road 
close  to  the  water,  under  a  trellis  of  roses,  looking  at  the  rocky 
mountains,  which  were  subtly  changing,  obedient  to  the  influ- 
ence of  the  delicate  evening  light.  She  turned  her  head  as  he 
approached,  and  he  thought,  "Yes,  she  is  like  a  gazelle!" 
Even  he  thought  that  he  saw  in  her  eyes  the  half-frightened, 
half  espiegle,  and  wholly  gentle  look  characteristic  of  the  eyes 
of  the  gazelle. 

"  Is  it  dinner  time  already?  "  she  said. 

Cesare  had  meant  to  sit  down  beside  her.  But  she  got  up 
at  once,  evidently  to  accompany  him  to  the  hotel. 

"  If  you  wish  it  to  be,"  he  said. 

She  heard  a  plash  of  oars. 

"  But  there  is  your  boat!  "  she  said. 

"  Yes." 

"  Going  away?  " 

**  I  do  not  care  to  keep  the  man  here  for  so  many  hours.  He 
has  a  family  and  likes  to  eat  with  them  at  home." 

"Let  us  dine  quickly!"  she  said.  "I  must  not  get  home 
too  late." 

Silvio  was  by  the  water  side  with  two  boatmen  of  Cade- 
nabbia.    He  looked  after  Dolores  and  Cesare  with  deep  interest, 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  321 

as  they  entered  the  hotel.     Then  he  talked  eagerly  with  the 
boatmen. 

In  the  restaurant  there  was  only  one  person  dining,  the  red- 
faced  lady,  probably  German,  who  had  stared  at  Dolores  from 
the  balcony.  In  a  white  blouse  she  looked  fatter  and  redder 
than  before.  Upon  her  bedevilled  hair  she  still  wore  the  mus- 
tard-colored hat.  She  stared  at  Dolores  and  Cesare  with  a 
morose,  and  apparently  almost  apoplectic  attention.  To  Dolo- 
res her  small  and  angrily  attentive  eyes  were  as  the  eyes  of  "  the 
world."  She  felt  uneasy,  almost  guilty  under  their  gaze.  And 
she  felt  that  she  was  singularly  unfitted,  by  something  in  her 
temperament,  for  what  almost  every  woman  she  knew  in  Rome 
would  think  an  amusing  and  delightful  little  adventure. 

Cesare  talked  to  her  quietly.  He  was  absolutely  self-pos- 
sessed, as  indeed  he  always  was.  But  she  felt,  rather  than 
saw,  a  strong  excitement  heaving,  as  it  were,  beneath  his  sur- 
iace  calm.  And  she  knew  that  he  could  feel,  and  that  his 
strong,  perhaps  even  violent  feeling  was  for  her.  And  this 
knowledge  gradually  comforted  her.  Her  intense  susceptibil- 
ity to  all  outward  influences  made  her  conscious  of  a  sort  of 
strong  shock  from  this  strength  in  him.  But  it  was  a  shock 
that  vivified,  not  stunned.  And  again  the  almost  reckless  feel- 
ing woke  in  her.  She  made  him  talk  of  the  picnic  at  Tuscu- 
lum,  describe  every  detail  of  that  day  in  the  sun.  She  pre- 
tended to  enjoy  the  thought  of  their  —  the  Denzils',  her  hus- 
band's, his  —  enjoyment.  She  laughed  when  Cesare  narrated 
the  manner  and  matter  of  the  games  played  by  the  three 
children,  Sir  Theodore,  himself,  and  even  by  Mrs.  Mas- 
singham,  half  under  protest,  and  almost  rent  asunder  by  loud 
breathings. 

"  And  Edna?  "  asked  Dolores.     "  Didn't  she  play  too?  " 

"  No.     Mrs.  Denzil  looked  on." 

"  I  suppose  she  thought  it  would  be  hardly  right  for  her  to 
romp  —  already." 

Cesare  felt  the  interior  bitterness,  almost  saw  it  striving  for 
an  outlet,  in  that  level  murmur.  Princess  Mancelli  had  edu- 
cated him  in  the  fierce  truths  of  feminine  jealousy.  He  con- 
tinued to  talk  about  Tusculum,  using  his  knowledge,  relying 
on  it  for  the  first  time.  He  knew  he  was  being  cruel.  He  did 
not  know  —  being  a  man  he  could  not  know  —  how  cruel.  He 
had  comforted  Dolores.  Now  he  tortured  her.  And  under 
th.e  torture  the  recklessness  in  her  grew.  She  no  longer  cared 
at  all  for  those  eyes  of  the  world  staring  under  a  head  of  be- 


322  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

deviled  hair.  The  German  lady  —  she  really  was  German !  — 
left  the  room,  after  a  final  stewed  pear,  with  a  most  unfavor- 
able opinion  of  the  "  ridiculously  thin  woman  in  the  white  hat." 

Her  departure  infected  Dolores  with  the  thought  of  depar- 
ture. 

"  I  ought  to  go,"  she  said. 

"  We!  "  said  Ccsare.     "  But  it  is  very  early  still." 

"  It  is  a  long  way  to  Villa  D'Este." 

"  Not  long  enough  for  us,  with  a  moon." 

"  I'm  afraid  I  must  go  back  alone,"  she  said. 

She  knew  —  somehow  she  knew  mysteriously  —  that  she  cer- 
tainly was  not  going  alone.  But  she  wished  to  avoid  what  she 
felt  to  be  wrong  —  she  was  of  those  who  think  words  can  be 
wrong,  almost  as  wrong  as  bad  actions  —  and  she  resolved  to 
make  a  struggle  against  the  approach  of  evil. 

"  In  fact  I  really  must,"  she  added. 

She  moved  as  if  to  get  up. 

*'  You  won't  even  allow  me  my  cigarette?  "  he  asked. 

"Oh  —  well,  that  is  too  bad.     Yes,  I  will  have  one  too." 

He  gave  her  one,  but  he  lit  a  large  cigar. 

"  You  said  a  cigarette!  "  she  said. 

"  If  I  smoke  too  many  they  hurt  my  throat.  And  I  have 
smoked  too  many  to-day." 

His  lie  made  her  think  of  Denzil.  When  Denzil  went  down 
into  the  darkness  had  he  not  condemned  her  to  the  darkness? 
Abruptly  she  was  seized  upon  by  a  melancholy  that  made  her 
desire,  almost  with  terror,  a  refuge. 

"Please  let  us  sit  out  of  doors,"  she  said,  getting  up.  So 
fierce  was  the  melancholy  that  she  had  to  disturb  it  by  move- 
ment. 

"  Yes,  in  the  little  garden  by  the  lake.     Have  you  a  wrap?  " 

"  In  the  boat.     But  don't  fetch  it.     I  don't  want  it." 

The  moon  was  not  up  yet.  A  soft  mantle  of  silvery  gray, 
with  a  hint  of  dim  blue  in  it,  wrapped  the  v/orld.  In  the  breast 
of  the  large  silence  voices  were  almost  like  points  of  flame  in 
blackness.  The  sound  of  steps  on  the  road  was  romantic.  Re- 
treating forms  of  people,  perhaps  ugly,  possessed  the  strange 
beauty  of  shadows.     In  the  little  garden  there  was  no  one. 

They  sat  down  under  the  trellis  of  roses  now  colorless  in  the 
night. 

Cesare  took  her  hand.  She  tried  to  draw  it  away.  He  held 
it  fast.  And  she  let  it  remain  in  his.  In  his  hand  she  felt  his 
excitement.     It  both  frightened  and  fascinated  her.     It  roused 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  323 

in  her  no  evil  sensation,  but  it  made  her  think  violently  of  a 
possibility  that  no  doubt  was  evil.  Never  had  she  felt  more 
mental  than  at  this  moment. 

Holding  her  hand  fast  in  his  Cesare  began  to  speak.  He 
did  not  make  love  to  her.  He  began  to  give  her  his  secret,  the 
secret  he  had  never  before  told  to  a  human  being.  And  he 
mentioned  no  woman's  name.  He  did  not  ask  for  pity  plainly 
in  words,  did  not  make,  that  is,  a  blatant  appeal  such  as  a  boy 
in  such  circumstances  would  almost  certainly  have  made.  Yet, 
subtly,  all  that  he  said  was  really  said  to  establish  a  claim  on 
the  softness,  the  tenderness,  of  the  intensely  feminine  woman 
beside  him.  He  did  not  ask  her  never  to  betray  his  secret. 
She  felt  that  he  knew  it  was  not  necessary  to  do  so.  There 
was  complete  trust  in  his  hand.  That  was  her  feeling.  His 
flesh,  bones,  nerves  told  her  that,  and  touched  her  heart  as  well 
as  her  hand.  For  a  man  expects  to  be  trusted,  but  a  woman 
loves  to  be  trusted.  His  story  was  the  story  of  his  intrigue 
with  Princess  Mancelli.  An  Englishman  would  not  have  told 
it  perhaps.  An  Italian  could  not  have  told  it  with  the  reti- 
cence Cesare  still  was  able  to  preserve  in  this  moment.  His 
way  of  telling  it,  the  volubility,  the  fervor,  the  command  of 
language,  the  eloquence  —  that  was  Italian.  The  delicacy  in 
all  detail  had  something  of  English  pudeur,  born  only  for  her, 
this  woman  whom  he  knew  to  be  pure. 

The  narrative  was  a  story  of  slavery,  of  possession,  of  youth- 
ful vanity  and  sensuality,  flattered  and  developed,  of  the  wak- 
ing of  manhood  with  its  restlessness  born  of  incipient  under- 
standing, which  became  complete  understanding;  of  the  shame 
and  the  misery  of  the  bondman,  of  the  self-torment  of  a  tradi- 
tional sense  of  honor  often  at  war  with  the  naked  truth  of  things, 
of  the  torment,  imposed  from  without,  of  intense  and  eternally 
watchful  jealousy.  Despite  Cesare's  instinctive  carefulness  in 
many  matters  of  detail  Dolores  was  led  by  him  into  a  new  and 
terrible  world,  a  world  whose  tumult,  whose  warring  impulses, 
whose  spiritual  and  physical  tortures  —  the  former  realized 
by  her  far  more  keenly  and  sensitively  than  by  Cesare,  and  far 
more  clearly  than  the  latter  —  blotted  out  for  the  moment  from 
her  eyes  and  mind  the  stillness,  the  peace,  tlie  mystic  beauty  of 
the  world  that  lay  around  her,  silently  waiting  for  recognition, 
but  remote  from  any  appeal.  The  subtle  misery  of  the  body 
was  there,  a  frightful,  and,  it  seemed,  an  independent  thing,  a 
force  altogether  detached  from  the  soul  —  following  its  own 
courses,  driven  by  its  own  demons,  going  to  its  own  perdition. 


324  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

It  was  surely  the  woman's  body  that  was  jealous,  that  followed, 
that  spied,  that  craved,  that  cursed;  it  was  surely  Cesare's  body 
that  angrily  longed,  that  fought  against  sense  of  honor  and  tradi- 
tions, for  the  liberty  that  was  necessary  to  it.  And  all  this 
was  quite  hideous  to  Dolores. 

And  then  the  narrative  came  to  herself,  and  a  soul  seemed 
to  be  released  and  to  arise  —  she  thought  like  a  dove  out  of  a 
pit  of  black  ashes. 

Cesare  described  how  it  was  her  coming  into  his  life  that 
made  him  finally  resolve  to  grasp  his  liberty.  He  did  not  speak 
with  any  sentimentality,  or  pay  her  compliments,  or  rave  about 
the  effect  her  beauty  had  had  upon  him.  But  he  spoke  with 
deep  sentiment,  and  with  a  sort  of  vehement  and  clear  pic- 
turesqueness  which  painted  what  she  had  been  in  those  early 
days  to  him,  what  thoughts  and  desires  she  had  engendered  in 
him,  what  action  she  had  all  unconsciously  led  him  to.  He 
showed  her  her  own  softness,  her  own  romance,  her  needs,  her 
rights,  even  her  longings,  by  describing  his  summoned  into  being 
by  her.  How  masculine  his  were!  How  different  in  fiber, 
as  it  were,  from  her  own !  But  they  were  imperious.  He  pre- 
sented himself  to  her  as  a  man  who  was  starving,  because  he 
had  been  fed  with  the  wrong  food. 

And  Dolores  felt  that  Princess  Mancelli  had  possessed  no 
food  for  his  soul. 

Finally  Cesare  told  her  how  he  had  cast  off  the  yoke  from 
his  neck,  how  he  had  forced  his  way  out  into  freedom,  not  com- 
plete freedom,  perhaps,  but  a  liberty  such  as  he  had  not  hitherto 
known,  such  as  he  had  hardly  hoped  for. 

"  You  are  cruel,"  Dolores  almost  whispered,  speaking  at  last. 
*'  You  are  cruel." 

She  drew  her  hand  away,  but  gently. 

"  I  believe  all  men  are,"  she  added.  "  As  soon  as  they  don't 
love  any  more." 

And  as  she  said  that  she  was  not  thinking  only  of  him. 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  was  cruel  or  not,  and  I  don't 
much  care,"  he  answered.  "  I  had  to  do  it,  and  it  was  you 
who  made  me  do  it." 

It  seemed  to  Dolores  at  that  moment  very  wonderful  that 
she  had  been  able  to  inspire  such  a  fierceness  of  action,  that 
she  had,  unwittingly,  crushed  a  woman  down  into  the  dust,  that 
she  had  poured  into  a  man  the  strength  of  desire  that  had  made 
him  ruthless.  But  she  believed  Cesare,  and  she  was  almost 
frightened. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  325 

"  It  was  your  softness,  your  gentleness,  your  —  the  look  in 
your  eyes.     It  was  3'ou." 

He  sought  for  her  hand  again,  but  she  got  up. 

"  I  must  go,"  she  said. 

"  I  am  coming  with  you." 

"Why?" 

"  I  am  coming  as  far  as  Urio." 

She  looked  at  him,  and  said  nothing  more.  They  went  to- 
wards the  boat.  Silvio  was  there  with  some  boatmen.  He 
saluted  Dolores. 

"  You  can  bring  the  boat,  Silvio.     I  am  ready  to  go  now." 

"  Sissignora." 

As  a  moment  later  Silvio  was  helping  Dolores  into  the  boat 
she  said  to  him : 

"  This  signore  is  coming  a  little  way  down  the  lake  for  the 
sake  of  the  trip.     I'll  tell  you  where  to  put  him  ashore." 

"  Sissignora.     But  it  must  be  where  there's  a  landing.'" 

"  Of  course." 

Dolores  settled  herself  outside  the  cabin  with  a  cushion  at 
her  back  against  the  partition.  As  Cesare  was  getting  into 
the  boat  he  said  something  to  Silvio  in  a  low  voice. 

"Where  shall  I  sit?"  he  asked. 

Dolores  pointed  to  the  seat  on  the  opposite  side  of  the  narrow 
gangway. 

"Or  shall   I  steer?"  he  suggested,  pointing  to  the  wheel. 

"If  you  like." 

He  sat  down  on  her  side  by  the  wheel.  Silvio  climbed  into 
the  stern,  to  his  fastness  behind  the  cabin,  and  began  to  back 
the  vaporino  out  into  the  lake  preparatory  to  turning  her  prow 
homewards. 

The  moon  was  just  above  the  crest  of  the  mountains.  The 
first  ray  of  silver  lay  on  the  water  stretching  towards  the  boat, 
as  if  in  an  effort  to  touch  it. 

"  I  think  you  had  better  not  come,"  Dolores  said,  in  a  quick 
and  very  low  voice.     "  Why  should  you  come?  " 

Before  he  could  answer  the  boat  turned  easily,  and  set  her 
course  for  the  south.  And,  perhaps  because  of  that,  he  did  not 
answer  at  all.  With  his  hand  on  the  wheel  he  sat  sideways 
to  Dolores,  so  that  she  saw  his  profile,  looking  dark  and  almost 
mysterious,  relieved  against  the  delicate  dimness,  lit  with  strange 
silver  pallors  of  the  night.  What  had  she  to  do  with  this  man, 
or  he  with  her?  They  were  almost  strangers  still.  Yet  he 
had  given  her  his  secret.     If  he  knew  hers! 


326  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

She  shivered  at  the  thought. 

"  You  are  cold,"  he  said.     "  Put  on  your  wrap." 

He  got  up,  bent,  went  into  the  cabin  and  brought  it  out. 
She  moved,  and  he  put  it  round  her  shoulders.  And  as  he  did 
that  she  suddenly  knew  what  he  had  not  told  her,  how  he  loved 
her  with  his  body.  The  momentary  light  touch  of  his  hands  on 
her  shoulders  and  the  upper  part  of  her  arms  taught  her  that, 
more  than  his  hand  clasp  had  taught  her.  And  it  threw  her 
into  a  strange,  and  almost  terrible  confusion  of  mind.  She 
was  in  a  chaotic  state  of  rebellion.  She  was  rebelling  against 
Cesare,  against  herself  —  the  temple  in  which  dwelt  a  hateful 
thought  of  which  she  was  wholly  unable  to  rid  herself  —  against 
her  husband,  against  all  that  had  brought  her  to  this  present 
moral  and  emotional  crisis.  She  felt  like  a  guilty  woman,  and 
then  like  a  foolish  child  because  she  had  felt  like  that.  Her 
innocence  made  her  absurd,  even  to  herself.  How  could  she 
have  lived  so  long  in  her  world,  have  known  so  much,  and  yet 
remain  so  almost  ludicrously  Puritanic?  A  man  had  made  a 
sort  of  love  to  her.  She  had  not  responded.  And  yet  already 
she  felt  as  if  she  had  sinned  against  the  light. 

"Aren't  we  going  very  slowly?"  she  asked. 

Cesare  was  again  at  the  wheel,  and  the  vaporino  was  skirting 
the  left-hand,  here  deserted,  bank  of  the  lake. 

*'  I  don't  think  so.     This  Isn't  a  very  high-powered  boat." 

He  relapsed  into  silence. 

Presently,  almost  directly,  Dolores  began  genuinely  to  won- 
der why  he  had  come.  He  would  be  out  probably  all  night. 
For  there  were  no  steamers  plying  so  late,  and  Urio  was  a 
long  way  off.  He  was  not  talking  to  her,  not  even  looking  at 
her  now.  With  what  seemed  to  her  a  business-like  air  of  com- 
petence he  sat  at  the  wheel  guiding  their  course.  Perhaps  he 
was  the  victim  of  a  reaction  after  the  strong  feeling  he  had 
just  been  showing  to  her.  She  could  not  divine  his  mood. 
BafRed,  her  consciousness  of  his  strength  increased.  She  be- 
gan presently  to  wonder  if  she  had  hurt  him.  When  he  put  on 
her  wrap  had  he  perhaps  felt  as  if  she  shrank  from  him?  It 
would  be  a  good  thing  if  he  had.  But  she  —  had  she  instinc- 
tively shrunk  from  him  when  she  had  realized  what  she  had 
realized  ? 

She  nearly  began  to  cry.  Suddenly  she  felt  like  a  poor  weak 
little  thing,  battered  about,  flung  this  way  and  that,  desperately 
alone.  It  was  Cesare's  silence,  his  grim  retreat  into  himself, 
after  his  strangely  frank,  and  even  passionate  outburst,  which 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  327 

gave  her  this  lonely  feeling.  It  was  scarcely  bearable.  She 
did  not  love  this  man.  Her  heart  was  possessed,  unworthily 
perhaps.  That  she  should  ever  come  even  to  wonder  if  that 
were  so!  But  she  loved  something  in  Cesare.  That  day  had 
amply  proved  it  to  her.  She  loved  his  love  of  her.  She  felt 
as  if  she  needed  his  love  of  her,  not  another  man's,  his.  Then 
there  was  something  special  in  Cesare  that  set  him  apart  from 
other  men  in  her  estimation. 

The  prow  of  the  boat  turned,  slipping  through  the  moonlit 
water,  and  sending  a  silver  curve,  like  a  ruff,  to  right  and  left. 
It  was  as  if  it  turned  in  answer  to  a  thought. 

"Where  are  we  going?"  said  Dolores. 

Her  own  voice  startled  her.  She  was  still  more  startled 
by  his  silence.  But  she  did  not  repeat  her  question.  She  looked, 
and  she  saw  rise  out  of  the  moonlight  the  thickly  wooded 
promontory  where  stood  the  deserted  villa  which  had  so  pain- 
fully moved  her  in  the  morning  by  its  aspect  of  poignant  ro- 
mance. The  vaporino  was  heading  straight  towards  it.  She 
leaned  forward  a  little,  moving  with  a  gentleness  that  was  al- 
most surreptitious,  and  she  saw  that  her  companion,  who  was 
looking  towards  the  shore,  was  frowning.  She  drew  back.  The 
shuttered  houses,  blind,  dark,  with  the  flowing  darkness  of 
those  weeping  trees  falling  to  the  water  below  them,  showed 
dimly  on  the  rocky  point.  The  woods,  so  black,  so  near,  seemed 
groping  after  them.     The  steady  throb  of  the  motor  failed. 

"What  is  the  matter?  " 

Dolores  leaned  forward  again. 

"Why  are  we  stopping  here?" 

Cesare  was  still  frowning.  His  drawn  down  brows  gave 
him  in  the  night  a  hard  and  brutal  expression.  He  turned,  with 
a  deep  sigh,  but  only  looked  at  her  for  an  instant.  The  frown 
was  gone.     He  said : 

"  I  must  be  careful.     The  harbor  is  small." 

His  voice  sounded  strange. 

The  wheel  went  round.  The  vaporino  was  gliding  into  the 
shadows.  Silvio's  voice  called  out  from  the  stern,  and  Cesare 
left  the  wheel.  Silvio  had  charge  of  it  now.  He  reversed  the 
engine,  then  sent  the  boat  on  again. 

"  But  why  are  we  coming  here?" 

Cesare  seemed  to  suppress  a  sigh, 

"  I  know  you  care  for  beauty." 

"Beauty!" 

She  spoke  almost  with  a  sharp  anxiety. 


328  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Didn't  we  talk  of  it  to-day  at  the  latterlaf  I  thought  I 
would  show  you  the  most  beautiful  villa  on  the  lake  by  moon- 
light.    That's  all"  ^ 

Pole  in  hand  Silvio  was  edging  towards  them,  his  other  hand 
on  the  cabin  roof. 

"  But  it  is  closed !  " 

"  The  gardens  I  mean." 

"  But  it's  deserted,  shut  up!  " 

"  I  have  brought  the  key  of  the  cancello." 

He  showed  it.  Silvio  took  the  shore  with  the  hook  of  his 
pole,  steadying  the  boat.  The  moonlight  was  gone.  The  little 
harbor  was  black  with  shadows. 

"  We  are  allowed  to  have  one  —  at  the  villa.  We  may  go 
In  at  any  time." 

Silvio  leaped  ashore,  and  bent  down  to  bring  the  swaying 
boat  close  in,  gently. 

"  Have  you  got  a  match?"  Dolores  asked  Cesare. 

Her  voice  was  very  low,  very  level,  almost  unnaturally  level. 

"You  want ? 

**  To  see  the  time,  please.  I've  got  my  watch  here.  I  only 
want  a  light." 

He  felt  in  his  pocket,  found  and  drew  out  a  box,  struck  a 
match,  protected  it  with  one  hand,  bending  down.  The  even- 
ing was  still.  The  tiny  flame  lit  up  his  face,  showed  the  exact 
expression  in  his  eyes. 

Dolores  did  not  look  at  her  watch. 

"  I'm  not  going  ashore,  Silvio  1 " 

"The ^ 

"  I'm  not  going  ashore  here,"  she  said. 

"  Signora."  ^ 

"  We  find  it's  too  late  to  go  ashore.  Take  the  boat  out, 
please !  " 

"  Sissignora!  " 

"  And  stop  at  the  nearest  landing  place  from  which  the  sig- 
nore  can  get  a  boat  home." 

"  Va  bene,  signora" 

Till  they  reached  Argegno  neither  Dolores  nor  Cesare  spoke. 
When  he  got  up  to  leave  the  vaporino  he  said,  almost  in  a 
whisper : 

"  For  God's  sake,  forgive  me !   If  you  knew  —  if  you  knew !  " 

"  Good-night,"  she  answered. 

And  now  her  voice  was  broken. 

"  That  card  —  you'll  send  it  ?  " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  329 

"  I  said  I  would." 

"  And  if  the  boy  is  worse  I  shall  come  down  to  Villa  D'Este. 
You  will  be  there  alone." 

"  Good-night!  "  she  said  in  a  voice  that  was  scarcely  audible. 
She  got  up  to  go  into  the  little  cabin.  As  she  did  so  Cesare 
gave  something  to  Silvio.  He  stood  by  the  edge  of  the  water 
watching  till  the  vapor'ino  disappeared  in  the  silver  track  of 
the  moon. 

Two  days  later  he  landed  at  the  steps  that  lead  down  from 
the  garden  of  Villa  D'Este  to  the  water.  He  had  received  a 
card  from  Dolores  on  which  were  written  these  words : 

"  I  am  sorry  to  say  little  Theo  Denzil  is  worse.  My  hus- 
band isn't  able  to  come. — D.  C." 

He  was  about  to  cross  the  garden  and  go  into  the  hotel 
when  he  saw  Silvio  a  little  way  off  by  the  wall  fishing  for 
agoni.  He  went  towards  him.  Silvio  looked  up  and  took  ofiE 
his  cap  with  a  smile. 

"  Fishing?  "  said  Cesare. 

"  Si,  Eccellenza." 

"  Is  the  padrona  in  the  garden  anyw^here." 

"  The  padrona  of  the  hotel,  Eccellenza?  " 

"  No,  the  lady  whom  you  took  to  Cadenabbia  the  other  day.'* 

Silvio  jerked  his  head  slightly  backward,  thrusting  out  his 
square  chin. 

"  She  has  gone,  the  beautiful  signora,"  he  said,  almost  sadly. 

"  Gone !  "  said  Cesare.  *'  Do  you  mean  she  has  left  Villa 
D'Este?" 

"  Si,  Eccellenza,  this  morning  suddenly.  And  she  had  or- 
dered the  vapor'ino  for  this  afternoon." 

"Why  did  she  go  so  suddenly?" 

Silvio  looked  steadily  at  Cesare.  Then  in  his  loud  voice, 
throwing  out  his  arm  in  an  ample  gesture,  he  answered: 

"  Eccellenza,  I  don't  know.  But  she  was  expecting  her  sig- 
nore.  He  did  not  come.  And  I  think  she  has  gone  back  to 
him." 

When  Cesare  inquired  at  the  bureau  of  the  hotel  Silvio's 
surmise  was  confirmed.  He  was  informed  that  Lady  Cannynge 
had  suddenly  made  up  her  mind  to  return  to  Frascati,  and  had 
gone  away  within  an  hour  of  her  decision,  leaving  her  maid  to 
follow  with  most  of  her  luggage.  Only  the  day  before  she  had 
said  that  she  would  stay  on  perhaps  for  several  weeks. 


330  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Do  you  think  she  means  to  come  back  ?  "  Cesare  asked. 

The  dark  and  agreeable  man  in  the  bureau  pursed  his  lips 
into  an  expression  of  doubt. 

'^  C/ii  lo  sa,  Signor  Principef "  he  murmured.  "Ladies 
change  their  minds  from  one  day  to  another.     Chi  lo  saf  " 

CHAPTER  XXVI 

In  August  Dolores  was  once  more  living  in  Palazzo  Bar- 
berini.  She  had  fled  from  Frascati  to  Villa  D'Este.  And 
then  she  had  fled  from  Villa  D'Este  back  to  Frascati.  Each 
time  she  had  been  driven  by  a  powerful  impulse.  And  each 
time  her  decisive  action  had  been  followed  by  fear.  She  had 
yielded  to  fear  and  left  Villa  D'Este.  And  now  she  had 
yielded  to  fear  and  again  left  Frascati.  The  small  house  Sir 
Theodore  had  taken  was  not  very  comfortable  and  Dolores  had 
made  that  fact  an  excuse  for  her  return  to  their  beautiful  apart- 
ment. Sir  Theodore  had  advised  her  against  returning,  fear- 
ing, or  seeming  to  fear,  the  effect  of  the  heat  in  Rome  on  her 
health.     But  she  had  been  firm. 

"  It  is  all  nonsense  about  Rome  being  impossible  in  sum- 
mer," she  had  said,  "  and  I  am  going  to  prove  it  nonsense.  I 
can  often  motor  over  and  spend  the  day  at  Frascati  if  I  want 
to." 

*'  You  must  come  every  day  and  go  back  at  night." 

But  of  course  Dolores  had  not  gone  every  day.  She  had 
never  meant  to  go. 

Little  Theo  had  been  seriously  ill,  in  danger  of  death.  In 
some  mysterious  way  his  blood  had  been  poisoned.  Edna 
Denzil,  already  so  fearfully'  warned  of  the  uncertainty  of 
life,  was  terrified  by  the  sudden  malady  of  her  son.  From  the 
moment  when  .the  first  symptoms  became  manifest  she  made 
up  her  mind  that  he  was  going  to  follow  his  father  to  the 
grave.  She  told  Sir  Theodore  of  her  conviction,  which  she 
concealed  from  every  one  else.  And  in  doing  so  she  displayed 
the  strange  nakedness  of  a  soul  that  sorrovi^  had  rather  warped 
than  refined. 

"  Theodore,"  she  said,  "  I've  been  a  fool  and  I'm  having 
my  reward.  I've  only  cared  for  the  few  things  good  women 
care  for,  the  so-called  good  women  at  least.  All  my  heart's 
been  set  on  my  home,  my  husband  and  my  children.  I've  never 
loved  what  so  many  women  love  —  pretty  clothes,  parties,  jew- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  331 

els,  money,  admirers.  I've  never  wanted  to  shine,  to  be  witty. 
I've  never  cared  really  one  bit  for  it  all.  And  see  how  I'm 
punished!  Everything  will  be  taken  from  me.  Franzi  has 
gone.  And  now  Theo  will  go.  It  seems  to  me  that  God 
hates  simple  things,  natural  goodness.  Poor  mamma  always 
says  I'm  naturally  good  and  could  never  be  anything  else. 
And  so,  I  suppose,  God  wants  to  punish  me." 

Suddenly  she  burst  into  tears. 

"What  does  He  want?  Oh,  what  does  He  want?  Will 
He  never  leave  me  alone?  " 

There  had  been  a  sound  almost  of  fury,  and  certainly  of 
enmity  in  that  cry.  And  Sir  Theodore  realized  that  in  her 
heart  his  friend,  ever  since  the  death  of  her  husband,  must 
have  cherished  hostility  against  the  God  in  whom  she  believed, 
in  whom,  perhaps,  now,  she  would  have  been  glad  to  believe 
no  longer.  He  tried  to  comfort  her,  and  almost  immediately 
she  dried  her  tears. 

"  Do  forgive  me,"  she  said.  "  If  only  I  could  be  like  other 
women,  like  Dolores  for  instance,  and  find  all  my  real  enjoy- 
ment in  the  so-called  pleasures  of  life,  how  much  happier  I 
could  be." 

Sir  Theodore  had  been  conscious  of  a  disagreeable  feeling 
that  was  almost  sharp  mental  pain,  when  she  said  that.  But 
he  only  replied: 

"  We  will  f^ght  for  Theo's  life." 

Edna's  face  changed,  softened. 

"Oh,  Theodore!"  she  said.  "What  should  I  have  done, 
what  should  I  do  now,  without  your  generous,  disinterested 
friendship?" 

"  I  understand  you,"  he  said  quietly. 

"  No  one  else  does." 

In  these  two  sentences,  without  knowing  it,  they  put  into 
words  what  was  becoming  the  tragedy  of  another  woman's 
life.  And  the  desperate  illness  of  little  Theo  drew  them 
rapidly  much  nearer  together.  For  during  it  Edna  Denzil 
saw,  as  no  one  else  saw —  for  she  alone  had  the  mother's  eyes — ■ 
the  intensity  of  Sir  Theodore's  love  for  her  child,  and  his 
capacity,  unusual  in  a  man,  for  complete  unselfishness  where 
his  deepest  feelings  were  roused.  Instinctively  he  now  hid 
these  things  from  his  wife.  He  was  a  sensitive  man,  and  her 
dislike  of  the  Denzil  children,  carefully,  scrupulously  concealed 
though  it  was,  mysteriously  touched  his  spirit  and  affected  his 
words  and  actions. 


332  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Although  he  had  had  a  secret  reason  for  wishing  Dolores  to 
remain  in  Frascati  he  was  more  at  his  ease  when  she  had  gone. 
And  he  took  her  view  of  Rome  in  the  month  of  August.  She 
declared  that  Rome  was  *'  Delightfully  quiet  and  fascinating." 
No  doubt  it  was.  Because  people  ran  away  from  a  place  at  a 
certain  season,  that  did  not  prove  that  the  season  was  maleficent. 
And  Dolores  had  told  him  that  she  was  seeing  all  the  beautiful 
things  she  had  not  seen  properly  before. 

He  began  honestly  to  think,  when  he  thought  about  the 
matter  at  all,  that  she  was  having  "  a  very  interesting  time." 

But  he  had  few  moments  just  then  to  give  to  any  thought 
unconnected  with  little  Theo.  Presently  the  imminent  danger 
of  death  passed  away,  and  there  began  the  period  of  hope, 
sometimes  assailed  by  fear,  but  on  the  whole  progressive.  Edna 
Denzll  and  Sir  Theodore  shared  both  fear  and  hope  as  they 
watched  over  the  battling  child.  Day  by  day  they  were  drawn 
together  more  closely  by  their  community  of  feeling.  Mean- 
while Dolores  had  her  opportunity  of  becoming  acquainted  with 
Rome  in  August. 

At  first  she  believed  that  there  was  no  living  creature  whom 
she  knew  left  in  Rome.  And  she  was  glad.  She  thought  she 
much  preferred  to  see  one.  All  the  palaces  were  closed. 
There  was  no  one  in  the  great  hotels.  Her  apartment  in 
Palazzo  Barberini  was  the  only  one  that  was  tenanted.  A  si- 
lence that  almost  frightened  her  sometimes,  heavy  like  some 
Iron  weight  impending  and  near  its  fall,  reigned  in  it  and 
seemed  old.  She  felt  as  if  it  were  a  silence  which  could  be 
touched.  The  heat  was  great,  but  not  overwhelming  if  one 
remained  within  doors  during  the  midmost  hours  of  the  day. 
This  Dolores  always  did. 

She  often  lay  down  on  a  sofa  in  the  green  and  red  drawing- 
room.  The  windows  were  protected  by  awnings  and  by  green 
blinds  which  were  kept  down.  Sometimes  a  breath  of  wind 
stirred  the  blinds,  producing  a  dry,  and  very  small  rattling 
sound.  More  often  they  were  motionless.  Dolores  fancied 
that  she  felt  the  stagnant  city  brooding  outside  all  around 
the  palace  In  the  blaze  of  the  sun,  like  a  thing  solidified  instead 
of  liquefied  by  the  action  of  heat.  Its  flowing  movement  and 
murmur  burned  out  of  It.  In  the  great  and  dim  chamber  Len- 
bach's  old  man  regarded  her,  and  his  eyes  seemed  waiting  till 
they  should  see  something  that  they  had  not  3'et  seen.  And  the 
"  Donna  guardando  il  mare  "  was  surely  waiting  too,  looking 
over  the  desolate  sea.     In  these  hours  of  solitude  Dolores  came 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  333 

to  have  a  very  strange  feeling  about  these  two  pictures  with 
which  she  had  lived  so  long.  Her  imagination  gave  to  them 
life.  The  woman  was  alive  and  expectant — for  herself.  She 
was  a  sort  of  symbol,  or  wraith,  of  another  woman.  And  the 
man  was  alive,  that  old  man,  and  expectant  because  he  knew 
what  women  are,  what  they  do,  what  they  have  to  do.  What 
an  experience  of  life  was  in  his  eyes!  Dolores  identified  herself 
with  the  woman  watching  the  sea,  and  it  was  the  sea  of  life 
which  throws  up  strange  flotsam  and  jetsam.  The  old  man 
would  not  v/atch  forever  in  vain.  She  began  to  be  convinced 
of  this,  and  to  feel  that  she  had  always  subtly,  sub-consciously, 
known  it  since  she  had  been  in  Palazzo  Barberini.  And  she 
connected  the  old  man's  eyes  with  the  thought  that  still  gnawed 
at  her  mind.  What  would  he  see  at  last?  One  day  it  seemed 
to  her  quite  suddenly  that  she  knew.  So  abruptly  did  the 
knowledge  burst  upon  her,  ripping  away  defensive  barriers, 
beating  down  doors,  that  she  almost  cried  out.  Indeed  for  a 
moment  she  believed  she  had  cried  out.  She  had  been  lying  on 
the  sofa.  She  sprang  up,  went  to  the  picture,  looked  into  those 
eyes.  Was  she  attempting  defiance?  No.  She  and  he  shared 
that  knowledge.     They  were  chained  to  each  other  by  it. 

But  how  could  the  future  be  known  by  a  human  being  with 
the  ordinary  capacities  and  powers  of  a  human  being? 

That  day  Dolores  went  out  much  earlier  than  usual,  and 
before  the  great  heat  had  subsided.  She  walked  till  she  was 
tired.  She  even  went  on  walking  when  she  was  tired,  until 
she  was  almost  exhausted.  When  she  went  home  she  found 
her  husband  in  the  palace.  She  regretted  this.  She  felt  as 
if  he  must  see  the  knowledge  shared  by  her  and  the  old  man, 
the  knowledge  which  had  driven  her  out  into  the  sun  and  an 
empty  world,  in  her  eyes,  even  in  the  look  of  her  body.  But 
he  evidently  noticed  nothing.  He  only  stayed  a  short  time, 
and  then  motored  back  to  Frascati.  Little  Theo  that  day  had 
seemed  to  fall  back,  and  once  more  Edna  and  Sir  Theodore 
were  ravaged  by  fear. 

It  was  on  the  following  day  that  Dolores  found  there  were 
two  people  whom  she  knew  still  in  Rome.  She  met  them  both, 
separately,  Lady  Sarah  Ides  close  to  the  Piazza  di  Siena  in 
the  Villa  Borghese,  and  Nurse  Jennings,  the  Irish  girl  who 
had  helped  to  nurse  Francis  Denzil,  in  the  little  restaurant 
on  the  Pincio  where  she  had  gone  to  have  a  cup  of  tea. 

Lady  Sarah,  with  a  loose  and  shockingly  adjusted  veil  over 
a  shady  hat,  her  bag  in  one  hand,  an  old  green  parasol  in  the 


334  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

other,  was  standing  with  her  back  to  the  garden  of  the  lake 
watching  some  airily  clad  Italian  boys  running  and  bicycling 
on  the  track  around  the  Piazza.  Dolores  saw  her  before  she 
saw  Dolores,  and  hesitated  for  a  moment,  debating  whether 
to  speak  to  her  or  to  move  quietly  away  unobserved.  Although 
Dolores  almost  loved  Lady  Sarah,  that  day  she  felt  half  afraid 
of  her.  Once,  a  long  time  ago,  she  had  let  Lady  Sarah  into  a 
secret,  perhaps  into  the  secret  of  her  heart.  Now  she  must 
be  reserved  with  her.  She  knew  that.  And  truth  and  sin- 
cerity shone  in  this  middle-aged  woman  who  had  been  tried 
more  even  than  Edna  Denzil  had  been  tried,  but  who  had  not 
been  found  wanting.  And  Dolores  had  another  reason  which 
made  her  now  hesitate  to  accost  her  friend.  Something  within 
her  almost  dreaded  Lady  Sarah's  absolute  rectitude  of  heart. 
Perhaps  she  would  have  stolen  away  had  not  Lady  Sarah  very 
suddenly  turned  round,  at  the  same  time  dropping  the  bag, 
which  as  usual  burst  open. 

"  My  dear!  "  she  cried. 

Forgetting  the  bag  she  surged  forward  impulsively  to  clasp 
the  hand  of  Dolores  in  hers. 

"  You  have  come  in  from  Frascati." 

Through  the  veil  her  kind  eyes  seemed  to  Dolores  to  be 
reading  changes  In  a  face  that  had  surely  changed  very  much 
in  the  last  few  weeks. 

"  You  have  dropped  your  bag!  " 

Dolores  picked  it  up. 

*'  Have  I?  Oh,  everything  is  coming  out.  It  Is  always  so. 
I  must  get  a  new  one.  Never  mind.  I  have  been  In  England 
with  my  brother-in-law." 

"The  doctor?" 

"  Yes." 

They  were  both  silent  for  a  moment.  Then  Lady  Sarah 
said: 

"  Ever  since  the  end  of  April  when  I  bade  you  good-bye. 
I've  been  seeing  a  good  deal  of  hospital  life." 

She  sighed. 

"  How  human  beings  bear  things!  It's  too  splendid,  and 
might  force  an  atheist  to  believe  in  God !  "  she  exclaimed. 

"Physical  things!"  said  Dolores. 

Lady  Sarah  pushed  up  her  veil  in  a  bunch. 

"  I  heard  In  England  you  had  gone  to  Frascati  for  the  sum- 
mer. 

"  Yes.     We  both  like  the  air  there,  and  the  walks  are  lovely. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  335 

But  for  the  moment  I'm  in  the  Palazzo.     Why  did  you  come 
back  so  soon?  " 

"  Mervyn  was  going  to  pay  an  annual  visit  to  Scotland,  and 
I  was  getting  hard  up.  Rome  is  economical  in  summer.  And 
I  love  Italy  in  summer.     Don't  you?" 

Suddenly  Dolores  realized  how  thought  had  killed  observa- 
tion in  her  while  she  had  been  out  that  day.  Till  now  she  had 
not  been  aware  of  the  loveliness  of  this  Roman  pleasaunce. 
She  had  not  seen  the  crested  darkness  of  the  pines,  the  sweet 
twilight  that  hides,  as  if  fearing  pursuit  of  its  beauty,  under 
the  close  growing  leafage  of  the  ilexes.  The  long  walks  had 
not  tempted  her  feet,  nor  the  grassy  lawns  soothed  her  eyes 
with  their  nature's  color.  She  had  riot  even  heard  the  frail 
song  of  the  fountains. 

"  Of  course,"  she  replied  hastily.  "  It  is  only  real  Italy 
then.     We  were  wise  to  stay." 

"  And  how  are  the  Denzils?  "  asked  Lady  Sarah. 

As  she  put  the  question  there  was  a  sound  almost  as  of 
constraint  in  her  pleasant,  slightly  veiled  voice. 

"  Poor  little  Theo  has  been  desperately  ill!  " 

All  the  constraint  vanished  at  once  from  Lady  Sarah.  She 
put  her  hand  quickly  on  the  arm  of  Dolores. 

"Oh — no!"  she  said.  "She  can't  be  intended  to  go 
through  that.  There  are  some  things "  she  checked  her- 
self, thinking  perhaps  of  her  own  life's  tragedy.  "  Is  he 
better?  "  she  asked. 

And  a  whole  heart,  warm,  energetic  with  love  of  humanity, 
seemed  in  her  voice. 

"  Yes,"  Dolores  replied. 

Lady  Sarah  looked  at  her  and  remained  silent. 

"  He  is  better,  but  he  is  still  very  ill.  Now,  dear  Lady 
Sally,  I  must  leave  you.  But  do  come  to  Palazzo  Barberini. 
Will  you?" 

"  But  are  you  going  to  stay  on  there?  " 

"  I  may.     It's  deliciously  quiet  —  nobody  there  but  me." 

"  You  haven't  got  another  dog?  " 

"  No,  not  yet." 

"Will  you  let  me  give  you  one?  I  saw  one  to-day  being 
carried  by  a  man  in  the  Corso,  a  perfectly  delicious  puppy, 
tub-shaped  at  present  —  but  that  will  pass!  —  with  an  'All's 
right  with  the  world  '  expression  in  its  eyes  that  simply  sweeps 
you  to  optimism." 

"  I  couldn't  have  a  puppy  in  the  palace." 


336  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"All  5'our  beautiful  things!     I  see." 

She  took  the  hand  of  Dolores  and  held  it  rather  closely. 

"Your  beautiful  things!"  she  repeated.  "And  yet,  isn't 
a  little  bundle  of  happy  life,  even  if  destructive  now  and  then, 
worth  them  all  —  really?" 

"  You  can  say  that,  you  who  haunt  churches  and  museums, 
and  go  so  often  to  stand  before  the  '  Pieta  '?  " 

"One  takes  refuge  —  yes.  One  is  driven  in  by  the  storm. 
But,  oh,  my  dear!  there's  nothing  in  all  the  art  in  Rome  worth 
the  touch  of  a  hand  that  loves  you." 

Her  eyes  at  that  moment  looked  as  if  she  —  she,  the  soul  — 
were  the  space  of  a  world  away. 

"  But  I  do  love  the  beautiful  things  all  the  same,"  she  said. 
And  suddenly  she  was  there  by  Dolores,  with  Dolores,  again. 

"  Perhaps  we  can  see  some  of  them  together.  Shall  we? 
There  are  no  parties,  now,"  she  added,  with  a  sort  of  gentle 
tentatlveness  that  had  in  it  something  extraordinarily  delicate. 
"  Have  you  a  little  time  for  an  old  woman?  " 

Dolores  longed  to  kiss  her,  and  longed  to  be  away  from 
her. 

"  Come  to  Palazzo  Barberini,  dear  Lady  Sally.     Come " 

she  was  about  to  say  "  to-morrow "  to  fix  an  hour,  but  she 
finished  with  "  come  whenever  you  like." 

When,  at  half-past  five,  she  came  Into  the  restaurant  on  the 
PIncio,  she  at  once  caught  sight  of  Nurse  Jennings,  who  was 
comfortably  established  on  the  small  terrace  in  the  open  air, 
with  a  teapot  and  a  large  plate  of  rather  strangely  colored 
cakes  beside  her.  She  had  not  seen  the  Irish  girl  since  Francis 
Denzil's  death,  but  she  had  known  she  must  see  her  again. 
Since  the  night  when  they  had  talked  together,  before  Sir  Theo- 
dore came  back  from  the  children's  party,  Dolores  had  felt  that 
this  girl  would  be  some  day  in  her  life,  and  intimately.  She 
had  a  premonition  of  this. 

Nurse  Jennings  looked  up  and  smiled. 

"  Oh,  it's  Lady  Cannynge !  "  she  exclaimed. 

Her  pleasure  was  obvious  as  she  got  up  and,  with  unem- 
barrassed frankness,  came  forward  to  shake  hands. 

"  Let  me  have  tea  with  you,"  said  Dolores. 

"  Yes,  do  —  Lady  Cannynge." 

They  sat  down  side  by  side. 

"  Well,"  began  the  nurse  at  once.  "  You  haven't  called  for 
me  yet." 

"  I!  " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  337 

"  Don't  you  remember  you  said  how  you'd  like  to  have  me 
with  you  if  ever  you  were  ill?  " 

"  Yes,  I  remember." 

Dolores  looked  long  into  the  healthy  freckled  face  of  the 
nurse. 

"  Why,  what  is  it?  "  Nurse  Jennings  asked. 

"  I  don't  know,  but  I  often  feel  you  will  nurse  me  some 
daj.'." 

"  Do  you?     I  think  I'd  get  you  v/ell  again." 

"  I  wonder.     What  makes  you  think  such  a  thing?" 

"  Well,  I  could  put  a  lot  of  heart  into  it,  I  think,  nursing 
you." 

"  I'm  glad  you  feel  like  that." 

"  I  do,  really." 

"  And  you  think  that  would  make  a  great  difference,  would 
help  me  to  recover,  I  mean?" 

"  I  expect  it  would.  And  yet  it's  all  against  science,  I 
s'pose.     And  I'm  all  for  science." 

They  talked  on  cheerfully.  Dolores  noticed  that  Nurse 
Jennings'  very  self-possessed  and  honest,  and  very  experienced 
eyes  were  often  on  her  face,  almost  like  the  eyes  of  the  old 
man  in  the  portrait.  And  again  that  sense  of  prophetic  knowl- 
edge assailed  her.     Did  the  nurse ? 

When  tea  was  over,  and  Dolores  was  about  to  go  home, 
she  said: 

"  What  are  you  thinking  about  me,  nurse?  " 

"  Thinking — «Lady  Cannynge?  " 

"  Yes.  Haven't  you  been  thinking  something,  nearly  all 
the  time  we've  been  together?  " 

*'  I  don't  know  that  I  have." 

She  spoke  as  if  she  were  considering,  perhaps  searching  her- 
self. 

"  Have  I  ?  "  she  added. 

She  sat,  looking  full  at  Dolores. 

*'  Even  if  I  have  I  couldn't  rightly  say  what  it  is,"  she  said 
at  last.  "  I  s'pose  one  has  a  lot  of  queer  thoughts  that  go  be- 
fore one  can  catch  them,  like  a  snake  in  straw." 

"What  an  odd  simile!" 

"  Oh,  I  saw  one  once,  when  I  was  a  child.  That's  why  I 
said  that !  " 

When  they  parted  Dolores  asked  Nurse  Jennings  to  come 
and  dine  with  her  on  the  following  evening. 

She  came,  and  a  relation  that  was  akin  to  friendship  was 


338  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

established  between  them.  There  was  something  in  the  Irish 
girl  which  attracted  Dolores  strongly.  Perhaps  it  was  her 
powerful  grip  upon  the  grim  facts  of  life,  the  calm  and  the 
unblushing  way  in  which  she  stood  up  to  Mother  Nature,  not 
in  enmity,  never  in  enmity,  but  in  a  comradely  manner,  ready 
to  say,  "  That  is  so,  and  has  got  to  be  sol  "  to  all  Mother  Na- 
ture's dictates.  Her  knowledge  of  physiology,  her  frank  way 
of  speaking  about  facts  —  by  some  considered  improper  —  as  if 
they  were  right  and  beautiful  because  they  were  natural,  seemed 
to  clear  the  mind  of  Dolores  of  mists  which  had,  perhaps,  gath- 
ered there  because  she  had  lived  for  long  in  the  midst  of  a  highly 
artificial  civilization.  For  anything  that  was  "  against  Na- 
ture" —  her  own  phrase  —  Nurse  Jennings  had  a  great  con- 
tempt. But  she  wasi  exceedingly  lenient  in  mind  towards  many 
who  are  usually  condemned  as  sinners.  And  now  and  then 
she  sturdily  enunciated  propositions  that  startled  Dolores. 

Once,  for  instance,  when  discussing  the  superfluous  woman 
question,  which  in  England  had  become  important,  she  said: 

"  I  think  every  woman,  if  things  are  to  be  fair,  ought  to 
have  a  chance  to  have  one  child.     I  don't  say  more  —  but  one." 

Dolores  had  immediately  turned  the  conversation  from  that 
somewhat  delicate  subject.  But  the  nurse's  remark  went 
down  into  her  mind,  to  take  its  place  by  the  gnawing  thought 
that  for  so  long  had  never  ceased  from  its  activity.  And  it 
had  a  powerful  influence  upon  her.  For  she  had  from  the 
first  looked  upon  the  freckled  and  radiantly  strong  Irishwoman 
as  a  sort  of  embodiment  of  wholesomeness  both  mental  and 
physical. 

"If  things  are  to  be  fair!  "  How  often  during  that  summer 
in  Rome  those  words  rose  in  the  mind  of  Dolores.  They  came 
to  her  more  than  once  when  she  was  with  Lady  Sarah  —  for 
she  saw  Lady  Sarah  sometimes  —  and  she  wondered  what  Lady 
Sarah's  view  on  that  subject  would  be.  But  she  never  in- 
quired. Something  kept  her  secretly  reserved  when  she  was 
with  Lady  Sarah.  Long  afterwards  she  knew  that  it  was  an 
intention  which  she  must  have  formed,  perhaps  months  before 
she  was  completely  aware  that  she  had  formed  it.  Lady  Sarah 
had  a  strong  strain  of  religion  in  her.  Nurse  Jennings,  al- 
though she  was  a  Catholic,  and  was  very  regular  in  her  at- 
tendance at  Mass,  had  not.  And  the  woman  who  sees 
life  only  through  Nature's  eyes  is  very  different  from  ^  the 
woman  who  sees  it  through  the  eyes  of  the  God  revealed  in  a 
religion. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  339 

Lady  Sarah  saw  no  horizon  line  shutting  out  the  Immense 
possibilities  of  God.  Nurse  Jennings  saw  a  very  clearly 
marked  one  shutting  In  the  rather  crude  possibilities  of  Nature. 

In  her  then  condition  of  mind  Dolores  did  not  want  to 
look  too  far,  perhaps  lest  she  should  see  dark  clouds  of  con- 
demnation. She  almost  feared  Lady  Sarah,  and  sometimes  she 
wished  she  had  never  shown  her  that  truth  when  they  sat  to- 
gether in  the  victoria  on  the  Pincio  with  Nero  enthroned  be- 
tween them.  She  had  opened  a  door  Into  her  soul  that  day, 
and  she  was  nearly  sure  Lady  Sarah  had  stepped  In  and  had 
seen  much.     Had  she  not  seen  too  much? 

September  came,  a  golden  September,  and  little  Theo  was 
quite  out  of  danger,  and  was  growing  stronger  day  by  day. 
With  a  radiant  face  one  afternoon  Sir  Theodore  came  over  to 
Palazzo  Barberlnl  to  make  the  announcement  of  the  child's 
strides  towards  health. 

"  It's  his  voice  which  shows  It  most  strongly,"  he  said,  and 
as  he  spoke  his  own  bass  voice  took  on  a  stronger,  more  res- 
onant tone. 

"  Poor  little  chap!  It  used  to  be  like  the  voice  of  a  gnat 
almost.     But  now !  " 

He  stopped,  moved  about  the  room,  then  came  to  Dolores 
and  said: 

"Doloretta!" 

"Yes?" 

*'  Why  not  come  out  with  me  to-day  to  Frascati  ?  It  Is  a 
day  of  rejoicing.  Won't  you  come  and  share  in  It?  I  think  — 
I  fancy  If  you  did  Edna  would  feel  touched.  You  have  scarcely 
been  over  at  all,  and  then  only  for  such  a  few  minutes." 

*'  I  was  afraid  I  should  be  In  the  way." 

"  I  know.     Because  we  were  all  so  intent  on  Theo,  naturally. 

But  It's  different  now." 
.     "Is  It?" 

"Of  course  It  Is.  Won't  you  come?  You  mourned  for 
Francis.     Edna  knew  that.     Won't   you   take  a  part  In  her 

Joy?" 
"  Yes." 

She  got  up  and  went  to  put  on  her  hat. 

"  I  will  rejoice!     I  ivill!"  she  said  to  herself. 

When  she  reached  her  bedroom.  Instead  of  only  putting  on 
her  hat,  as  she  had  intended,  she  changed  her  gown.  She  re- 
membered how  critically  Theo  had  looked  at  the  gown  she 
had  put  on  for  the  present-giving  on  little  Theo's  birthday. 


340  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  had  thought  it  too  gay.  Might  he  not  think  the  pale 
brown  h'nen  she  was  wearing  to-day  not  gay  enough?  Almost 
like  a  child  that  furiously  wishes  to  "  be  good  "  she  summoned 
her  maid  and  got  into  a  festa  dress,  and  a  prefty,  though  simple 
hat. 

When  she  came  down  her  husband  said: 

"What  a  time  you've  been,  Doloretta!  I  thought  you  were 
never  coming.     Let's  be  off  to  Frascati." 

He  did  not  notice  the  change  she  had  made. 

As  they  were  driving  in  the  motor  over  the  vast  expanse 
which  was  the  prey  of  the  sun  Sir  Theodore,  who  had  been 
silent  for  some  time,  and  who  had  more  than  once  glanced  at 
Dolores  rather  doubtfully,  or  critically  (she  was  not  sure 
which)  said: 

"  It's  very  good  of  you  to  come,  Doloretta." 

"Good!  What  nonsense!  Isn't  it  natural  I  should  come 
on  a  day  of  joy  to  congratulate  friends?  " 

He  obviously  hesitated.     Then  he  said: 

"  I  hope  you  don't  mind  my  saying  something." 

The  almost  diffidence  with  which  he  spoke,  the  evident  dis- 
comfort and  reserve,  showed  her  the  gap  which  was  now  be- 
tv/een  them. 

"  Of  course  not.     What  is  it? 

"  I  wish  you  could  manage  really  to  look  upon  Edna  as 
your  friend." 

"  But,  Theo  —  what  do  you  mean  ?  " 

There  was  a  sort  of  firm,  deliberate  surprise  in  her  voice. 

"  Of  course  I  look  upon  Edna  as  my  friend.  She  has  al- 
ways been  charming  to  me." 

"  I  know  she  has.  She  could  not  be  anything  else.  But 
since  Francis  died  I  have  sometimes  thought  it  was  only  him 
you  were  fond  of,  that  you  did  not  care  about  Edna.  And  — 
I  don't  know,  of  course,  but  sometimes  I  have  thought,  too, 
that  Edna  had  some  suspicion  of  it." 

"  But  what  have  I  done,  or  left  undone?  " 

"  Well,  you  hurried  away  from  Frascati  to  Como  after  we 
had  taken  the  house." 

"  I  came  back  directly  I  knew  you  could  not  join  me." 

"  Yes,  but  j^ou  did  not  remain  at  Frascati.  And  you  scarcely 
ever  come  over." 

"  My  dear  Theo,"  she  said,  smiling.  "  But  I  am  coming 
over  now !  " 

For  the  moment  she  said  no  more.    The  fact  that  he  wished 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  341 

her  to  be  at  Frascati  for  Edna's  sake,  lest  Edna  might  feel 
secretly  offended  or  surprised,  made  Dolores  feel  as  if  her  heart 
were  as  hard  as  the  emerald  she  had  won  at  the  bridge  tourna- 
ment. She  remembered  the  jewel's  ugliness  to  her  touch  in 
the  dark,  and  it  seemed  to  her  that  her  husband,  in  a  strange 
ignorance,  was  setting  out  to  compass  his  own  dishonor.  When 
they  were  not  far  from  the  foot  of  the  hill  which  ascends  to 
Frascati  he  spoke  again. 

"  There  is  a  special  reason,"  he  said,  still  with  obvious 
reserve  and  discomfort,  "why  I  think  it  would  be  much  better 
if  vou  and  Edna  saw  a  little  more  of  each  other." 

''Is  there?     What  is  it?" 

"  Well,  Dolores,  we  live  in  the  world,  and  must  remember 
the  evil  eyes  and  the  sharp  tongues.  Nobody,  perhaps,  has 
been  more  trained  to  consciousness  of  their  existence  than  one 
who  has  been  a  diplomat,  as  I  have.  Rome  is  a  watchful  old 
lady  " —  as  he  continued  he  evidently  became  more  uncom- 
fortable, and  was  trying  to  speak  more  lightly  and  easily  — 
*'  and  can  be  very  jnauvaise  langue.  I  cannot  help  thinking 
that  if  you  are  not  a  good  friend  to  Edna  people  may  begin 
to  talk." 

"But  what  about?"  Dolores  asked,  with  an  air  of  gentle 
ignorance.  "  He  shall  say  it!  I'll  make  him  say  it!  "  she  was 
saying  in  that  heart  which  felt  hard. 

"  It's  very  absurd  of  course,  but  about  my  seeing  so  much 
of  Edna.  Naturally,  I  could  never  care  for  such  nonsense 
on  my  own  account.  But  she  has  no  man  now  to  protect  her, 
and  it  is  my  duty  to  think  for  her  in  these  matters.  You  see 
my  position." 

"  Could  people  really  be  so  silly  ?  " 

"  We  must  remember  that  Edna  is  still  young!  "  he  observed, 
almost  as  if  he  were  slightly  nettled. 

"Yes,  that's  true.     Well,  what  is  it  you  wish  me  to  do?" 

"  I  think  it  would  be  wise  if  you  saw  a  little  more  of  Edna, 
were  more  intimate  with  her.  It  would  make  things  appear 
in  their  true  light." 

"  It's  a  little  difficult  now,  because  Edna  never  comes  to 
Rome,  never  comes  to  see  me." 

"  There's  a  good  reason  for  that." 

"Is  there?" 

"  You  know  it  as  well  as  I  do.  Rome  has  terrible  memories 
for  Edna,  and  especially  Palazzo  Barberini." 

"  I  did  not  people  the  Palazzo  with  them." 


342  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  No,  of  course  not.  But  it  is  obviously  far  easier  for  you 
to  visit  Edna,  than  for  Edna  to  visit  you." 

Dolores  said  nothing.  She  feared  to  say  something  she 
would  regret. 

"But    perhaps "    Sir    Theodore    began.     He    stopped, 

looked  at  his  wife,  and  continued,  "  Perhaps  it  bores  you  coming 
to  Frascati,  entering  into  such  a  homely  family  circle?  Perhaps 
you  don't  care  for  the  children  and  their  prattle?  I  know  it 
is  not  every  one  who  can  care  for  the  simple  things.  And  you 
are  such  a  success." 

"  I — a  success  1  " 

"  To  be  sure,  with  your  prizes  for  tournaments,  and  your 
skating  feats,  and  your  salon." 

"  Would  you  have  me  an  utter  failure?  " 

"  I  certainly  would  not  wish  you  to  be  bored  because  of 
me." 

"We'll  see  how  I  get  on  to-day!"  she  said,  laughing. 
**  How  seriously  you  take  everything  —  now  1  " 

She  forced  irony  into  her  voice,  but  indeed  she  felt  a  faint 
sense  of  irony.  There  are  few  women  who  have  not  won- 
dered sometimes  at  the  naivete  of  the  men  they  love.  Dolores 
almost  wondered  now.  Yet  she  knew  that  Theodore  was 
cleverer  than  she  was.  But  not  about  the  things  of  the  heart! 
In  those  was  he  not  as  a  blind  man  stumbling  in  a  darkness 
that  might  be  felt?     Or  —  was  he  willfully  blind? 

An  arrow  of  jealousy  pierced  her. 

"  Things  that  are  serious  ought  to  be  taken  seriously,"  said 
Sir  Theodore,  with  unusual  emphasis.  "  We  all  know  how 
tiresome  the  people  are  who  take  frivolous  things  solemnly. 
But  those  who  take  the  vital  things  frivolously  are  worse  than 
merely  tiresome." 

"  Is  that  a  rebuke  to  me?  "  she  asked,  still  smiling,  and  with 
more  irony. 

"  No.  But  I  must  confess  I  don't  think  you  always  quite 
appreciate  what  is  important  in  human  life  and  what  is  not." 

The  motor  turned  to  the  left,  and  came  into  the  straight 
bit  of  road  which  leads  to  the  Piazza  Romana. 

"  I  must  try  to  learn  from  you,"  she  answered. 

He  said  nothing  more. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  343 


CHAPTER    XXVII 

That  day  Edna  Denzil  was  happier  than  she  had  been  since 
her  Franzi  died.  She  had  emerged  from  a  great  fear,  and  her 
fear  had  taught  her  sharply  a  lesson.  For  months  she  had 
been  brooding  over  the  thought  of  what  she  had  not.  Now 
she  realized  how  much  she  still  had,  so  much  that  God  might 
yet  take  away  from  her,  if  He  chose!  Because  He  had  chosen 
to  spare  her  son,  Edna  was  able  at  last  to  turn  to  Him,  al- 
though He  had  snatched  away  her  husband.  She  was  able 
to  do  Avhat  she  had  not  done  for  a  very  long  time;  to  go  quietly 
and  alone  to  a  church,  to  kneel  down  and  thank  Him.  As 
the  Cannynge's  motor  ascended  the  hill,  observed  by  Mrs.  Mas- 
singham,  who,  as  usual,  was  installed  in  the  red  loggia,  with 
the  Italie,  a  novel  and  a  piece  of  embroidery,  Edna  Denzil 
came  alone  from  the  Cathedral  of  San  Pietro,  where  she  had 
been  praying  before  a  picture  of  Saint  Anthony  of  Padua. 

She  had  found  the  big  church  almost  deserted,  despite  its 
coolness.  Only  three  or  four  venerable  unfortunates,  who 
looked  centuries  old,  and  as  if  their  faces  had  been  slowly 
carved  out  of  some  dark  material  by  the  ruthless  hands  of  time 
and  tribulation,  prayed,  muttered,  or  slept  in  dim  corners, 
ready,  however,  to  emerge  in  search  of  alms  if  occasion  presented 
itself.  They  had  all  emerged  in  honor  of  Edna,  and  she  had 
given  alms  to  all.  Then,  when  they  had  retreated  to  their 
corners,  and  returned  to  their  orisons  or  their  watchful  slum- 
bers, she  had  knelt  down  before  Saint  Anthony.  He  was 
close  to  the  door  and  he  carried  on  his  arm  a  child.  Two 
candles  burned  before  him.  Some  humble  bunches  of  flowers 
lay  at  his  feet.  And  lying  close  to  them  in  a  cheap  little 
frame  was  a  "  Preghiera  a  S.  Antonio  di  Padova,"  beginning 
with  the  words:  "Oh,  most  gracious  Saint  Antonio,  hear  my 
humble  voice." 

But  Edna  did  not  pray  to  any  saint  or  even  to  Madonna. 
She  was  able,  indeed  she  felt  obliged,  to  communicate  directly 
with  God.  And  as  she  did  so  she  felt  an  immeasurable  relief; 
as  she  did  so  she  was  aware  of  her  long  bitterness,  she  knew 
the  torture  that  wrings  the  soul  which  rebels  against  the  decrees 
it  cannot  understand.  Only  then,  when  she  escaped  it,  did  she 
truly  know  it. 

She  prayed  for  a  long  time,  and  in  that  prayer  found  re- 


344  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

newal.  In  thanking  she  obtained.  True  gratitude  receives 
the  most  sacred  gifts,  and  Edna  knew  that  in  the  peace  which 
descended  upon  her  soul.  She  shed  some  tears  while  she  prayed. 
And  they  gave  a  stronger,  a  more  lovely  life  to  the  flowers 
springing  up  in  her  heart. 

She  came  out  into  the  sun-scorched  piazza  before  the  Cathe- 
dral with  the  drops  of  the  holy  water  still  wet  upon  her 
forehead.  And  as  she  did  so,  as  she  stood  at  the  top  of  the 
steps  for  a  moment  and  looked  at  the  triple  fountain  bubbling 
among  its  ferns  at  the  base  of  the  barrack-like  building  which 
sternly  rises  above  it,  as  she  heard  the  clang  of  the  bells  that 
ring  untiringly  out  over  the  vines  and  the  olives,  as  if  send- 
ing their  message  to  Rome,  mother  of  all  messages  of  bells 
of  all  Catholic  churches,  she  wondered  if  Franzi  could  see 
her.  At  this  moment,  for  the  first  time  since  his  death,  she 
felt  as  if  he  were  alive.  And  she  felt  that  because  she  had 
renewed  the  true  life  in  her  soul. 

She  crossed  the  piazza,  and  came  out  before  the  Pension 
Belle  Vue,  and  in  the  distance  she  heard  the  sound  of  a  motor, 
running  between  the  double  rows  of  trees  that  shelter  the 
public  walks  by  the  garden  over  which  Garibaldi  presides  on 
a  marble  pedestal.  In  a  moment  she  saw  that  it  was  Sir 
Theodore's  motor,  and  as  it  drew  up  she  stood  on  the  path  by 
its  door,  full  of  her  new-found  peace  which  was  happiness, 
not  such  as  she  had  once  known,  but  such  as  was  prepared  for 
her  now,  at  this  stage  in  the  long  pilgrimage.  And  as  the 
door  opened  she  met  the  eyes  not  of  Sir  Theodore,  whom  she 
was  expecting  to  see,  but  of  Dolores. 

She  was  surprised.  Yet  at  this  moment  she  would  have 
been  ready  to  be  cordial,  almost  in  the  way  of  that  Edna 
Denzil  who  had  dined  one  night  in  Palazzo  Barberlni  to  bless 
a  roof-tree.  But  directly  she  met  the  eyes  of  Dolores  she  felt 
as  if  something  in  her  withered  up.  Yet  those  eyes  were 
smiling  above  smiling  lips.  A  hand  clasped  hers,  and  even  held 
it  while  kind  words  were  spoken. 

"  I  heard  of  your  joy  and  I  came  over  w^ith  Theo  to  share 
it,  if  you  will  let  me." 

Those  were  the  words  In  her  ears.  She,  too,  smiled.  She 
returned  the  hand  clasp.  But  joy's  effortless  ease  was  gone  for 
the  moment  right  out  of  her  life. 

Sir  Theodore  got  out,  and  at  once  Edna  saw  that  he  was 
no  longer  the  happy,  the  almost  exultant  man  who  had  left  her 
but  a  few  hours  ago. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  345 

"When  shall  I  tell  Pietro  to  come  for  you?"  he  asked  his 
wife. 

"How  long  can  you  bear  my  company,  Edna?"  she  said, 
smiling. 

Edna  made  a  strong  effort  to  recapture  the  feeling  of 
happiness,  of  goodness,  that  had  descended  upon  her  in  the 
church,  and  had  made  her  at  peace  with  herself  and  with  the 
world. 

"  Stay  a  long  while,  if  you  don't  mind  our  dull  little  house 
and  ways.  I  always  feel  we  are  quite  dreadfully  domestic, 
Dolores.     Stay  till  after  dinner,  won't  you?" 

"  Oh,  I  think  that  would  be  almost  too  late.     Besides,  I've 

got "  she  was  about  to  say  "  Nurse  Jennings  dining  with 

me."  But  she  remembered  about  Francis,  and  after  a  pause 
she  said,  "  I've  got  some  one  dining  with  me  to-night." 

"Have  you?  Who  is  it?"  said  Sir  Theodore,  as  if  in  an 
effort  to  make  cheerful  conversation. 

"'  Nurse  Jennings,"  she  said  quickly.  "  Let  me  stay  for 
an  hour,  Edna.     At  half-past  six,  Pietro !  " 

The  chauffeur  took  off  his  cap,  and  they  turned  and  de- 
scended the  steps. 

The  mention  of  Nurse  Jennings  had  sharply  recalled  to 
Edna's  mind  all  the  horror  of  the  operation  and  Francis's 
death.  She  had  never  seen  the  nurse  since  then,  and  could 
not  bear  even  to  think  of  her.  And  as  she  had  never  heard 
of  any  friendship  between  her  and  Dolores  she  was  surprised 
at  the  m.ention  of  the  dinner.  She  tried  to  dismiss  the  matter 
at  once  from  her  mind.  But  she  could  not.  She  was  back  in 
Palazzo  Barberini.  She  was  with  Franzi  on  the  sofa  waiting 
for  his  summons  to  get  readj^  She  recalled  the  long  time  when 
she  and  Theodore  sat  together  in  silence  waiting  to  know  the 
verdict.  Her  prayer  in  the  Cathedral  of  San  Pietro  had  re- 
leased her  from  bitterness,  and  the  bitterness  did  not  now 
return.  But  the  great  sadness  did,  with  a  sense  of  the  terri- 
ble realities  which  make  up  such  a  large  part  of  life.  She  did 
not  find  any  words  to  break  the  silence  which  had  fallen  till 
they  were  coming  into  the  house.  And  then  her  words  were 
banal. 

"  Don' t  vou  find  it  very  dull  in  Rome  at  this  time, 
Dolores?"  ' 

"  Well,  it  isn't  deliriously  gay,  Edna,  I  confess  that." 

Sir  Theodore,  who  was  behind  them,  frowned. 

"And  the  heat?" 


346  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Oh,  that's  quite  bearable,  if  one  shuts  oneself  up  during 
the  middle  of  the  day," 

"  You  ought  to  come  out  here  more." 

"  That's  what  I  tell  Doloretta,"  said  Sir  Theodore's  deep 
bass  from  behind. 

"  To  cheer  you  all  up !  "  said  Dolores. 

Silence  again  fell,  till  they  reached  the  first  floor. 

"  Is  little  Theo  up?  "  asked  Dolores. 

"  On  a  chaise  longue  in  the  loggia.  But  he  must  very  soon 
go  to  bed." 

"  How  happy  5'ou  must  be  feelingi" 

**  I  am  very  thankful  indeed." 

She  opened  a  door,  and  they  came  into  the  sitting-room 
which  gave  on  to  the  loggia.  Through  the  French  windows 
Dolores  saw  the  broad  back  and  large  brown  head  of  Mrs. 
Massingham.  This  head  was  nodding,  and  a  thread  of  so- 
prano voice,  very  small,  but  clear  and  sweet,  was  audibly 
singing: 

"  Come  si  fa  la  pace, 

Schiude   Bertin   la   bocca, 
Ei    guarda,   pensa,   tace, 
Ed    unbel   bacio  scocca." 

Dolores  stood  still. 

"Wait!"  she  murmured.  "Don't  let  us  go  out  till  it's 
finished.  The  round  head  continued  to  nod,  backwards  and 
forwards,  and  from  one  side  to  the  other,  as  if  the  singer  were 
conducting  in  a  new  way  without  a  baton. 

"  Pace  che  vince  il  cuore, 

E  che  disarnia   ratta, 
Che  scaccia   il  malumore, 

Che  collera   ha   disfatta  — 
Pace  che  chiede  scusa 

Muta   teneramente 
Pace  cosi  conclusa 

Dura  sicuramente." 

The  song  ceased  and  the  head  stopped  nodding.  Then  a 
small  voice,  with  a  touching  gentleness  and  simplicity  in  it, 
said: 

"  Thank  you,  Nonna.  I'm  sure  I  should  hate  to  quarrel 
now." 

"Is  that  Theo  speaking?"  said  Dolores. 

"Yes,"  said  Edna. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  347 

Dolores  saw  that  her  eyes  were  full  of  tears. 

"  No  one  should  ever  quarrel.  But  why  now,  dear?"  said 
Mrs.  Massingham. 

"  I  don't  know.     But  I  feel  now  as  if  I  liked  every  one." 

"  That's  a  very  nice  feeling." 

"  Yes,  isn't  it,  Nonna?  " 

Dolores  went  on,  passed  through  the  French  window  and 
came  into  the  loggia. 

"  Then  you  must  like  me,  Theo!  "  she  said. 

She  went  straight  up  to  a  long  chair,  on  which  was  a  tiny 
form  covered  with  a  rug,  a  head  with  carefully  brushed  brown 
hair  supported  by  cushions,  and  bending  down,  kissed  the  pale 
little  face  that  had  turned  towards  her. 

In  doing  this  she  had  not  so  much  yielded  to,  as  attacked 
a  good  impulse,  but  when  she  saw  the  expression  in  the  little 
boy's  eyes,  and  heard  him  say,  "  Of  course.  But  that's  nothing, 
is  it,  because  you're  our  friend !  "  she  felt  she  could  love  this 
child  —  as  indeed  naturally  she  loved  all  children  —  if  only  she 
were  allowed  to  be  her  true  self.  But  oh,  to  have  a  son  of 
her  own!  To  be  the  rightful  owner,  the  jealous  possessor  of 
a  child!  To  see  a  child  turn  naturally  first  to  her,  put  her 
before  every  one,  even  its  father! 

"  You  dear,  pretty  creature !  Why  I  thought  you  were 
never  coming  near  us  any  more." 

Mrs.  Massingham  blinked   rapidly  as  she  kissed  Dolores. 

She  loved  beauty,  and  secretly  had  a  strong  leaning  towards 
things  that  were  brilliant  and  persons  who  shone.  Plunged  in 
domesticity  as  she  was,  and  thoroughly  happy  in  it,  she  never- 
theless could  not  entirely  detach  her  mind  from  the  great  world. 
And  since  she  had  read  so  much  about  Dolores  in  the  Italian 
papers  Dolores  had  become  in  her  eyes  an  embodiment  of  all 
that  her  own  dear  daughter  was  not.  She  loved  Edna,  but  she 
had  sometimes  wished  that  Edna  were  a  tiny  bit  more  worldly, 
more  mondaine.  Now  of  course  that  was  impossible.  Mrs. 
Massingham  was  quite  Italian  in  her  view  of  the  suitable  life 
for  a  widow. 

"  Sit  down  beside  me  and  tell  me  something  of  your  won- 
derful life  in  Rome,"  she  added,  keeping  her  hand  on  the 
hand  of  Dolores,  and  drawing  her  into  one  of  the  straw  chairs 
with  red  cushions. 

Edna  Denzil  and  Sir  Theodore  went  over  to  little  Theo, 
bent  over  him,  then  sat  down  by  him.  And  by  the  way  they 
went,   together,   by  their  whole   manner  of  being  with   each 


348  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

other  as  soon  as  she  was  —  as  it  were  —  detached  from  them, 
Dolores  gathered  their  much  greater  intimacy. 

There  on  the  chaise  longue  lay  the  link  which  held  them 
so  tightly  together. 

"  My  wonderful  life,  dear  Mrs.  Massingham!  " 

"  Yes,  yes.     I  follow  all  you  are  doing  in  the  newspapers." 

"Now!  what  fascinating  reading  it  must  make!  Lady 
Cannynge  walked  alone  in  the  Villa  Borghese!  Lady  Can- 
nynge  sat  at  home  and  read  Dyer's  Modern  Europe.  Lady 
Cannynge  dined  alone  on  a  bowl  of  soup  at  eight  and  went  to 
bed  at  nine!  The  journalists  must  be  at  their  wits'  end  for 
topics." 

Mrs.  Massingham  laughed.  She  loved  to  laugh,  and  thought 
very  small  things,  if  said  by  people  whom  she  liked,  extremely 
amusing. 

"  You  are  as  witty  as  you  are  pretty,"  she  said,  patting  the 
hand  she  still  held.  "But  are  you  really  alone  like  that?  I 
don't  approve  of  that  at  all." 

She  was  about  to  raise  her  voice  and  say  something  to  Sir 
Theodore,  who  was  talking  to  little  Theo  and  Edna,  but 
Dolores  stopped  her. 

"  No,  no,  I'm  not.  I  have  Lady  Sarah — all  sorts  of  people. 
I  talk  to  the  men  on  duty  in  the  museums," 

"  But,  my  dear  child " 

"  Why,  even  to-night  I  have  a  regular  dinner  party." 

"That's  much  better!" 

"  One  woman.     Oh,  but  a  very  nice  one!  " 

"A  woman!"  said  Mrs.  Massingham,  turning  her  large 
round  eyes  slowly  from  her  pretty  hand,  at  which  she  had 
glanced,  as  she  very  often  did,  to  the  face  of  Dolores.  "  How 
the  Italians  must  admire  you,  all  the  smart  men,  I  mean,  in 
Rome." 

"  I  hope  so,"  said  Dolores,  smiling,  and  trying  to  hear  what 
the  group  of  three  at  the  other  end  of  the  loggia  were  talking 
about  so  busily.  "  But  there  are  no  smart  men  in  Rome  now. 
So  I  have  to  put  up  with  women." 

"Are  you  like  Vi?"  inquired  Mrs.  Massingham  seriously. 

"  In  what  way?  " 

"  Vi  can't  bear  women.     She  only  cares  for  men." 

"  No,  I  like  women  very  much.  I  like  you,  dear  Mrs.  Mas- 
singham." 

And  this  was  true.     Mrs.  Massingham  was  the  only  person 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  349 

with  whom  Dolores  could  feel  at  her  ease  in  the  house  at 
Frascati. 

"  But  where  is  Vi?  "  Dolores  added.     "  And  where  is  Iris?  " 

"  They  were  sent  out  for  a  donkey  ride  to  give  Theo  a  rest. 
Edna!     She  doesn't  hear  me." 

Mrs.  Massingham  turned  more  round  in  her  chair. 

"Edna!     Edna!" 

**  Yes,  mamma.     What  is  it  ?  " 

Edna  looked  round.  A  laugh  was  just  dying  away  from 
her  lips  and  eyes. 

"  When  will  the  children  be  back?  " 

"  I  expect  them  every  minute." 

She  turned  again  to  the  two  Theos.  And  the  tiny  laugh 
of  the  still  weak  boy  rose  up  in  chorus  with  Sir  Theodore's 
big  bass  sound. 

"  Do  you  know,"  Mrs.  Massingham  assumed  an  almost  por- 
tentously mysterious  manner,  as  she  leant  a  little  nearer  to 
Dolores — "  Do  you  know,  I  really  think  she  is  beginning  to 
get  over  it !  " 

"  Edna,  do  you  mean?" 

"  Hush,  my  dear!  Yes,  Edna!  She  must  not  know  I  think 
it.  People  don't  like  such  thoughts.  But  since  Theo  is  out  of 
danger  she  is  a  different  creature.  I  can't  tell  you  what  I  have 
suffered  with  her  all  this  long  time." 

"  Have  you?  " 

"  Yes,  seeing  her  so  changed,  like  a  stone  almost,  except  when 
your  husband  was  here." 

"  He  cheered  her  up,  I  hope." 

"  I  think  he  did.  But  I  couldn't.  I  am  so  glad  you  are  so 
happy  with   him." 

Again  she  pressed  the  hand  of  Dolores. 

"  Edna  told  me  once." 

"  Told  you!     What,  dear  Mrs.  Massingham?  " 

"  That  your  husband  had  a  golden  nature  —  I  remember  the 
very  words,  they  were  so  odd!  —  and  therefore  that  you  were 
a  very  happy  woman !  " 

"  A  golden  nature!  " 

"Yes.  Wasn't  it  an  odd  expression?  But  I  quite  under- 
stood what  was  meant,  as  no  doubt  you  do.  Edna  has  an 
extraordinary  opinion  of  your  husband." 

"  I  am  so  glad." 

"Yes.     And  whatever  men  may  say  women  can  really  judge 


350  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

a  man  best.  I  am  sure  I  never  saw  any  human  being  more 
devoted  than  he  is  to  children.     They  really  worship  him." 

"  Do  they?     Dear  little  things!  " 

Mrs.  Massingham  again  looked  mysterious,  and  leaned  to- 
wards Dolores,  protruding  her  large  head,  and  opening  her 
eyes  very  wide. 

"  If  —  hush!  —  if  little  Theo  had  died  like  his  father  I  don't 
know  what  your  husband  would  have  done.  I  don't  think  he 
could  have  borne  it." 

"  We  have  to  bear  things,  dear  Mrs.  Massingham." 

"Ah  —  I  know !  I  know !  But  there  are  some  things  that 
are  too  much." 

"  Yes,"  said  Dolores,  again  looking  towards  the  group  of 
three. 

"And  when  they  come  —  well,  my  dear  child!" 

Mrs.  Massingham  lifted  her  pretty  little  hands,  raised  her 
chin,  and  made  a  face  suggestive  of  cataclysm. 

"  And  I  don't  think  we  should  judge  them !  "  she  continued, 
oracularly,  having  apparently  thought  continuously  through 
the  hiatus  in  her  language.     "But  of  course  we  always  do!" 

"  I  don't  think  I  should  care  whether  I  were  judged  or  not, 
if  I  had  done  what  I  was  obliged  to  do,"  said  Dolores. 

And  there  was  an  almost  hard  sound  in  her  voice. 

"You!"  said  Mrs.  Massingham.  "Why,  you  dear,  pretty 
creature,  nobody  could  ever  judge  you.  They  could  only 
pity  you.  But  thank  God  there  is  no  need  for  that.  My 
Edna  was  right.     You  are  a  happy  woman." 

At  this  moment  there  was  a  sound  of  shrill  voices,  a  patter 
of  feet,  the  door  opened,  and  Iris  and  Viola  appeared,  rosy, 
beaming,  and  excited  from  their  donkey  ride.  Iris  carried  in 
her  hand  a  whip  almost  as  big  as  herself,  which  Dolores  recog- 
nized at  once  as  her  present  to  little  Theo  on  his  last  birth- 
day. She  walked  firmly  towards  the  loggia,  with  her  legs 
rather  wide  apart,  in  a  manner  suggesting  that  she  rode  almost 
as  often  as  the  average  cavalry  officer,  and  that  she  always 
rode  astride.     And  as  she  came  in  she  announced  twice: 

"  My  donkey  tumbled  down !     My  donkey  tumbled  down !  " 

Behind  her  the  little  Viola,  dressed  in  white,  with  a  shady 
white  hat,  peeped  with  anxious  eyes,  perhaps  to  see  whether 
any  men  were  of  the  party. 

"  My  donkey  tumbled  down !  "  repeated  Iris  loudly,  for  the 
third  time,  as  she  gained  the  French  windows  giving  on  to  the 
loggia. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  351 

"  My  donkey  didn't  tumbun  down !  "  cried  Viola,  taking 
hold  of  her  sister's  skirt  with  one  hand,  bending  and  looking 
round  Iris,  as  if  she  were  a  corner,  at  the  assemblage  in  the 
loggia. 

As  her  ej-es  reached  Sir  Theodore  she  smiled  with  a  coquet- 
tish expression,  withdrew  her  head  behind  the  rampart  of  her 
sister's  body,  then  peeped  again,  while  the  rosy  flush  deepened 
over  her  little  face. 

"  Tumbled  down !  "  said  Mrs.  Massingham.  "  But  how 
danaerous,  my  darling!     What  a  bad  little  donkey!" 

She  and  Dolores  were  nearest  to  the  window  where  the  two 
children  were  standing. 

"Come  and  tell  us  all  about  it!"  she  added,  holding  out 
her  hand. 

"  Yes,  Iris,  and  give  me  a  kiss!  "  said  Dolores  smiling.  "  I've 
come  over  to  play  j-ou  a  tune." 

Iris  stepped  into  the  loggia,  leaving  the  window  free  for 
Viola,  who  immediately  made  a  sort  of  half  shy,  half  em- 
perious  dart  at  Sir  Theodore,  avoiding  Dolores  by  means  of 
a  dexterous  curve,  and  threw  herself  upon  him  as  if  he  were 
a  rightful  prey,  but  a  prey  full  of  unexpected  possibilities.  He 
caught  her  up  and  kissed  her. 

"Now,  Iris!"  said  Dolores,  almost  sharply,  and  bending 
down  to  the  child. 

"No,  I  don't  want  to!" 

"But !" 

"  I  don't  want  to !  "  repeated  Iris,  twisting  her  face  and 
avoiding  the  proffered  kiss. 

"Never  mind,  then!"  said  Dolores. 

But  she  felt  as  if  some  one  had  struck  her. 

"Tell  us  about  the  bad  little  donkey!"  exclaimed  Mrs. 
Massingham,  looking  uncomfortable.  "And  then  I  daresay 
kind,  dear  Lady  Cannynge  will  play  you  a  pretty  tune." 

"  But  he  wasn't  bad.     And  I  don't  want  a  tune  to-day." 

At  this  moment  Edna,  who  was  very  particular  about  her 
children's  manners  and  with  a  mother's  instinct  had  guessed  that 
something  was  not  quite  as  it  should  be,  got  up  and  came 
quickly  over  to  Iris. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  she  asked. 

"Nothing!"  said  Dolores  hastily.  "Iris  was  going  to 
tell  us  about  her  donkey." 

"  I'm  afraid  when  the  donkey  fell  Iris  dropped  her  man- 
ners," said  Mrs.  Massingham,  almost  severely. 


352  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  must  go  and  speak  to  Vi,"  said  Dolores,  getting  up. 

Her  face  was  faintly  flushed.  She  went  over  to  her  hus- 
band and  Viola.  The  little  girl  was  still  in  his  arms,  and 
with  both  her  tiny  hands  was  very  carefully  and  intently  ar- 
ranging his  thick  hair,  trying  to  smooth  it  down  on  each  side 
of  the  parting. 

"  Why,  what  is  Vi  doing  to  your  hair,  Theo?  "  said  Dolores. 
"  Isn't  she  satisfied  with  the  way  you  wear  it?" 

She  tried  to  speak  gaily,  with  a  good-humored  chaffing  in- 
tonation; but,  despite  herself,  the  irony  which  Sir  Theodore 
had  been  unpleasantly  aware  of  in  the  motor  crept  again  into 
her  voice.  Viola  turned  her  head,  looked  at  Dolores,  then 
abruptly  turned  her  head  away.  She  began  to  writhe  in  Sir 
Theodore's  arms. 

"I  wants  to  get  down!"  she  whispered  to  him,  making  a 
face. 

He  put  her  down  at  once,  and  she  immediately  ran  over 
to  her  mother  and  Iris. 

"What  was  she  doing  to  your  hair?"  Dolores  said. 

Her  eyes  and  her  husband's  met,  and  for  a  moment  —  a  long 
moment  it  seemed  —  gazed.  And  while  Dolores  looked  at 
her  husband  the  effort  she  made  to  retain  hardihood  sent 
through  her  a  hideous  sensation  of  seeming,  almost  of  actually 
being,  impudent,  as  a  bad  woman  is  impudent. 

"  Doing!  I  don't  know.  Who  knows  what  little  children 
are  up  to?  "  he  returned. 

He  put  up  his  brown  hands  to  his  head,  and  Dolores  saw 
a  distinct,  though  only  passing  expression  of  active  hostility 
in  his  eyes.  And  she  knew  that  at  that  moment  her  hus- 
band wished  her  far  away  from  him,  and  from  those  he  was 
with. 

**  Vi's  always  up  to  something  with  Uncle  Theo,"  said  little 
Theo's  weak  and  gentle  voice  from  the  chaise  longue.  "  She 
can't  leave  Uncle  Theo  alone.     Shei  is  naughty." 

"  Is  she?  "  said  Dolores. 

Her  voice  was  almost  choked  in  her  throat.  She  sat  down 
quickly  by  the  boy.  He  at  least  still  treated  her  as  a  friend. 
She  took  his  thin  hand  in  hers,  trying  to  feel  very  tender.  How 
she  hated  that  atrophied  feeling  about  her  heart!  Hov/  she 
dreaded  what  she  was  becoming  at  that  moment! 

"Is  she?"  she  repeated,  clearing  her  throat  wn'th  a  faint 
little  sound  which  told  Sir  Theodore  nothing. 

"  I  don't  mean  really  naughty  like  bad  people,"  little  Theo 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  353 

explained,  with  a  peculiar  naivete  of  manner  that  seemed  to 
spring  from  his  state  of  health,  "  who  do  awful  things,  you 
know.  I  only  mean  that  she  does  go  for  Uncle  Theo  the  whole 
time. 

Sir  Theodore  got  up  and  went  after  Vi,  pulling  at  his  pointed 
beard  with  a  hand  that  looked  nervous.  •  Dolores  saw  that  he 
did  not  wish  to  hear  what  he  did  not  wish  her  to  hear.  But 
he  was  too  subtle  to  stop  little  Theo,  and  the  boy  went  on,  in 
his  delicate  voice,  telling  Dolores  about  the  life  of  her  hus- 
band in  this  family  when  she  was  away.  She  had  seen  some- 
thing of  the  family  life,  even  too  much,  when  she  had  stayed 
against  her  will  at  Frascati.  But  she  now  realized  that  even 
when  he  had  played  in  the  little  garden  before  the  Pavilion 
with  the  children  her  husband  had  never  been  really  natural, 
had  never  quite  abandoned  himself  to  the  spirit  that  had  cap- 
tured them  so  easily,  so  thoroughly.  Her  presence  had  cast 
a  shadow. 

Soon  Edna  came  over  and  interrupted  the  talk  of  her  son. 

**  Theo,"  she  said,  "  you  must  go  to  bed." 

"  Oh,  must  I?     Oh,  mums,  do  let  me  stay  a  little  longer!  " 

*'  Yes,  do,  Edna,"  said  Dolores,  with  an  almost  anxious 
earnestness.  It  had  come  to  this,  that  she  felt  as  if  the  re- 
moval to  another  room  of  little  Theo  would  leave  her  with- 
out a  friend.  For  the  moment  she  forgot  Mrs.  Massingham, 
she  thought  only  of  the  children,  their  mother  and  her  hus- 
band. 

Edna  Denzil  looked  doubtful. 

"Do,  Edna  — for  mel" 

Sir  Theodore  came  up. 

"Now,  Theo,  old  boy  —  bed  time!"  he  said,  in  his  deep 
voice,  bending  down  to  take  the  child  up. 

"But  Theodore,"  said  Dolores.     "We  want " 

"What  is  it?"  said  her  husband,  straightening  up. 

"  Dolores  wants  Theo  to  stay  up  a  little  longer,"  said  Ed;ia. 

"  But  you  said  to  your  mother  just  now  that  he  had  al- 
ready been  up  too  long." 

"  I  asked  that  he  might  stay,"  said  Dolores. 

"  But  he  mustn't,"  said  Sir  Theodore. 

"But,  Edna,  weren't  you  going  to  allow  him  to?"  said 
Dolores,  in  a  voice  that  was  almost  agitated  in  its  pressing 
eagerness. 

"Well,  I  don't  really  think  I  ol.  :'-t  to,"  replied  Edna,  but 
u'ith  obvious  hesitation. 


354  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  My  dear  Dolores,"  said  Sir  Theodore,  without  any  hesita- 
tion, "  a  mother,  and  only  a  mother,  can  judge  in  such  mat- 
ters, and  Edna  said  it  was  time  for  Theo  to  go  to  bed.  You 
must  not  interfere  in  the  kindness  of  your  heart,  or  you  will 
do  mischief  which  we  might  all  regret,  and  no  one  more  than 
you.     Come,  Theo!" 

And  he  took  the  child  up  with  loving  strength  and  carried 
him  off  to  bed. 

When  he  returned  Dolores  was  saying  good-bye  to  Mrs. 
Massingham,  who  was  stroking  her  hand  and  begging  her  soon 
to  return. 

"  You  bring  us  a  wh'ifi  of  the  great  world,  my  dear,"  Mrs. 
Massingham  was  saying,  "  and  that  is  good  for  us.  We  live 
quite  buried.  Of  course  it  is  very  nice,"  she  hastily  added, 
fearing  to  hurt  her  daughter's  feelings,  "  and  very  healthy,  but 
still  we  need  waking  up  now  and  then.  And  you  are  so  bril- 
liant." 

She  looked  at  Dolores  with  a  sort  of  large  and  maternal 
admiration. 

"  When  your  eyes  shine  like  that  you  are  just  like  a  jewel," 
she  added. 

"My  dear  Mrs.  Massingham,  what  a  flatterer  you  are!" 
said  Dolores,  hastily  bending  to  kiss  Mrs.  Massingham,  and 
releasing  her  hand,  but  gently,  "  Good-bye,  Edna,"  she  said 
in  a  moment,  turning  to  Edna  who  was  standing  by  the  para- 
pet of  the  loggia. 

"  But  I  will  come  with  you  as  far  as  the  motor." 

"  Indeed  you  mustn't." 

"  Are  you  going  already,  Dolores?  "  said  her  husband. 

"Yes,  I  must." 

"  I  don't  think  Pietro  will  be  there  yet.  You  said  at  half- 
past  six,  and " 

He  was  about  to  take  out  his  watch,  when  she  said,  de- 
cisively. 

"  Good-bye,  Theodore.  Perhaps  I  shall  see  you  to-mor- 
row.    Good-bye,   Iris.     Good-bye,  little  Viola!" 

She  blew  them  two  laughing  kisses,  but  she  did  not  touch 
them. 

"  I  really  am  coming,"  said  Edna. 

"  Only  to  the  steps  then.     It's  very  dear  of  you." 

She  was  gone. 

**  I'll  be  back  in  a  moment,"  Edna  said,  looking  at  Sir 
Theodore. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  355 

"Yes." 

He  had  made  a  movement  as  if  to  go  with  his  wife.  Then 
he  stood  still  and  caught  up  Viola. 

"  We'll  look  out  to  see  the  motor  going  down  the  hill  to 
the  Campagna,  won't  we,  Vi  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  she  replied.     "  Won't  we!  " 

And  once  more  she  began  with  both  hands  to  smooth  his 
thick  hair. 

"  I'll  come  to  the  top  of  the  steps,  Dolores,"  Edna  said. 
"  I'm  really  afraid  you  will  have  to  wait  for  the  motor.  It 
isn't  half-past  six." 

"  Pietro's  a  very  punctual  person.  I  must  tell  you  how 
glad  I  am  about  little  Theo." 

They  began  to  go  slowly  up  the  wide  steps,  walking  side 
by  side. 

Edna's  new  joy,  and  the  way  in  which  she  had  commemo- 
rated it  by  the  visit  to  the  cathedral,  made  her  much  less  self- 
concentrated,  less  egoistic,  than  she  had  been  in  her  long  bit- 
terness of  grief.  She  was  able  to-day  to  have  kind  thoughts 
for  another  woman,  even  to  see  more  clearly  than  she  had  since 
the  death  of  Francis  how  this  other  woman  might  be  affected 
by  the  apparently  trivial  incidents  of  life. 

"  Thank  you,  Dolores,"  she  said,  quite  warmly.  "  I  did 
wish  so  much  that  your  dear  thought  for  old  Theo " 

"  Old  Theo!  "  said  Dolores  sharply. 

"  Little  Theo " 

Oh,  yes." 


"  I  did  wish  that  he  could  have  stayed  up  longer,  but 


"  Oh,  it  was  much  better  for  him  to  go  to  bed.  And  now, 
Edna,  I'm  not  going  to  let  you  come  another  step.  No  — 
really !  Good-bye,  and  thank  you  for  a  delightful  hour.  I 
feel  that  little  Theo's  going  to  get  quite  strong,  and  that 
you're  out  of  all  your  troubles  at  last.  Good-bye.  Next 
time  I  come  I  shall  bring  som.e  toys,  or  dolls,  or  something  for 
the  little  ones;  a  Teddy  bear,  a  white  one,  for  Vi  —  and  111 
find  something  that  will  please  Iris  and  Theo  too." 

She  hardly  knew  what  she  was  saying.  She  turned  and 
went  quickly  to  the  road.  Pietro  was  not  there.  She  looked 
at  her  watch.  It  was  only  a  quarter-past  six.  For  a  quar- 
ter of  an  hour  she  wandered  about  alone  In  the  small  public 
garden.  Then  the  motor  arrived.  As  she  descended  the  hill 
she  looked  across  the  waste  ground,  and,  beyond  and  above 
the  station,   she  saw  the  house   with   the  loggia,   and   figures 


356  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

standing  by  the  balustrade.  One  was  very  tall,  and  against  it 
there  was  a  patch  of  white. 

Theo  holding  Viola! 

Dolores  leaned  back  in  the  motor  and  shut  her  eyes. 

V/hen  she  reached  Palazzo  Barberini  that  evening  and  came 
Into  the  hall  of  the  apartment,  she  saw  a  card  lying  on  the 
marble  table  that  stood  close  to  the  front  door.  She  picked 
it  up,  and  read  the  name  of  Cesare  Carelli. 


XXVIII 

That  night  Nurse  Jennings  came  to  dine  with  Dolores  at 
eight  o'clock.  Her  experienced  eyes  saw  at  once  that,  as  she 
would  have  expressed  it,  "  something  was  wrong  with  Lady 
Cannynge."  At  dinner  Dolores  talked  a  great  deal,  was  in- 
deed much  more  lively  than  usual.  But  there  was  to  the 
nurse  something  unpleasant  in  her  liveliness.  It  did  not  sound 
or  seem  natural.  And  anything  that  she  could  not  consider 
natural  always  set  the  Irish  woman  on  her  guard,  even  made 
her  feel  almost  hostile,  unless  she  could  trace  it  back  to  some 
physical  cause.  If  she  could  do  that  then  her  nursing  instinct 
at  once  came  into  play,  and  she  was  interested,  ready  to  help, 
perhaps  even  pitiful,  in  her  calm  and  thoroughly  self-possessed 
manner. 

After  dinner  the  two  women  went  to  sit  in  the  green  and 
red  drawing-room.  Dolores  lit  a  cigarette.  The  nurse  never 
smoked.  Indeed  she  thought  smoking  a  "filthy  habit,"  but 
she  did  not  say  so.  She  was  comfortably  installed  in  an  arm- 
chair and  Dolores  half  sat,  half  lay,  curled  up  on  a  sofa,  watch- 
ing the  little  rings  of  smoke  mount  up  and  disperse  in  the 
great  high  room.  Her  liveliness  had  left  her  now  dinner  was 
over,  but  there  was  a  faint  flush  in  her  usually  white  cheeks 
and  her  eyes  were  glittering.  They  looked,  thought  Nurse 
Jennings,  like  those  of  a  fever  patient. 

"  Have  you  ever  been  ill.  Lady  Cannynge?  "  she  asked. 

"  No,  not  dangerously  ill.     Why  do  you  ask,  nurse?  " 

*'  I  don't  know.     It  just  came  into  my  head." 

"  You  don't  think  I  look  ill  to-night?  " 

"  I  don't  think  you  look  your  best." 

"Don't  I?" 

With   a  brusque,   but  graceful   movement   Dolores  was  on 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  357 

her  feet.  She  crossed  the  room  quickly  and  stared  at  herself 
in  a  glass.  And  it  seemed  to  her  as  if  she  looked  at  a  bad 
woman,  but  at  a  woman  who  had  been  forced  to  be  bad 
against  her  will,  almost  against  her  nature.  Coming  away 
from  the  mirror  she  went  to  the  piano  and  sat  down  on  the 
piano  stool. 

"Oh  yes,  do  play,  Lady  Cannynge,  please!"  said  Nurse 
Jennings.     She  came  to  sit  near  the  piano. 

"You  would  really  like  it?" 

"  Indeed  I  should.     You  do  play  so  well." 

**  Somebody  refused  to  hear  me  play  to-day." 

"Refused  to  hear  you!     Whoever  could  that  be?" 

"  Somebody  at  Frascati.     What  shall  I  play  ?  " 

She  struck  the  keys  powerfully,  filling  the  room  with  sound, 
improvised  for  a  moment,  stopped  abruptly. 

"  Oh,  don't  stop !  "  exclaimed  the  nurse,  drawing  her  chair 
closer  to  the  piano. 

"  But  I  must  think  of  something  to  play.  That  was  only 
nonsense  out  of  my  own  head.     Wait  a  minute." 

Dolores  had  an  excellent  memory  and  played  much  music 
without  notes.  Now  she  thought  of  various  composers.  Of 
late  she  had  given  herself  to  the  ultra-modern  musicians,  to 
Debussy,  Cyril  Scott,  Ravel  and  others.  She  had  come  to 
understand,  and  even  to  delight  in  their  strange  and  elusive 
effects,  their  often  pale  subtleties,  their  intricate  care  in  avoid- 
ing the  obvious,  their  mother-of-pearl  mannerisms,  and  their 
occasional  touches  of  moonlight  mysticism.  But  now  in 
thought  she  rejected  them  and  their  works  as  unreal,  blood- 
less, tearless.  And  her  mind  went  back  to  the  great  classics. 
But  they  seemed  to  her  too  robust,  too  gloriously  sane,  too 
free  from  the  cruel  fever  of  life  and  the  agony  at  the  soul 
of  human  things. 

Nurse  Jennings  sat  watching  her,  but  at  this  moment  Do- 
lores was  quite  unself-conscious.  And  the  nurse  thought  that 
she  had  never  seen  a  sadder  face  than  the  face  now  bending 
over  the  keys  of  the  piano.  She  tried  to  think  that  this  tragic 
look,  which  quite  troubled  her,  might  be  caused  by  the  way 
the  light  fell  on  Lady  Cannynge,  then  that  Lady  Cannynge's 
face  always  looked  rather  sad  simply  because  of  her  coloring, 
the  shape  of  her  features,  the  depth  of  darkness  in  her  large 
eyes,  and  the  duskiness  of  her  hair.  Nevertheless  she  con- 
tinued to  be  troubled.  "She's  quite  changed  to-night!"  the 
nurse  said  to  herself.     "  She  isn't  herself  at  all!  " 


358  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

At  last  Dolores  began  to  play.  She  played  four  preludes 
of  Chopin,  each  one,  the  nurse  thought,  more  sad  than  its  fore- 
runner.    Then  she  stopped. 

"  I  can't  think  of  anything  to-night,"  she  said.  "  Any- 
thing that's  really  —  music  has  always  seemed  to  me  to  be 
able  to  express  more  than  any  other  art  —  till  to-night.  But 
to-night  it  doesn't  seem  to  me  to  be  able  to  express  anything. 
Life  is  so  sad,  and  the  sadness  is  so  —  so  deep.  And  the  sad- 
ness of  music  is  shallow,  I  think  now.  But  there's  just  one 
thing  I  know  that  is  unutterably  sad,  out  of  a  symphony  by 
Tchaikovsky.  Of  course  one  ought  to  have  the  orchestra. 
But  even  on  the  piano !  " 

She  began  to  play  again,  and  continued  for  several  minutes. 

"  Isn't  that  terrlblv  sad,  nurse?  "  she  asked,  stopping. 

"Terribly  — indeed!" 

"  Terribly  sad,  and  terribly  true." 

She  came  away  from  the  piano,  and  stood  for  a  moment 
looking  at  the  Lenbach  old  man.  Nurse  Jennings  noticed  that 
she  was  perpetually  clenching  and  unclenching  her  hands, 

"  How  I  hate  this  apartment!  "  she  suddenly  cried  out,  turn- 
ing around. 

"Lady  Cannynge!  and  it  is  so  beautiful  and  splendid!" 

"  How  I  hate  it,  and  oh!  how  I  hate  Rome!  " 

"Why?" 

"Shall  I  tell  you?" 

She  sat  down  close  to  the  nurse.  Something  ungovernable 
seemed  to  her  to  have  suddenly  arisen  within  her,  beating, 
clamoring  for  outlet. 

"Shall  I  tell  you?"  she  repeated,  looking  into  the  nurse's 
face  with  Intensity. 

"  If  it's  right  that  it  should  be  told !  "  Nurse  Jennings  re- 
plied with  firmness. 

"You  do  like  me?" 

"  I  do,  Lady  Cannynge.     You're  a  true  lady." 

"A  lady  —  oh!     I'm  a  human  being!     That's  all!" 

"And  enough  too!  " 

Dolores  put  her  hand  on  the  nurse's  knee. 

"  Enough!     Isn't  it  too  much?  " 

"  Why  too  much  ?  " 

"  Because  a  human  being  has  pride,  and  nerves,  and  a  brain, 
and  a  heart,  so  much  that  can  be  wounded,  humbled,  tor- 
tured." 

"What  is  the  matter.  Lady  Cannynge?  All  the  evening 
I've  seen  that  you  were  not  at  all  yourself." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  359 

**  I  am  myself.  It's  just  that.  You've  never  seen  me  my- 
self till  to-night  —  never,  never!" 

"  I'm  sorry  if  that's  so." 

"I've  always  been  pretending  —  pretending " 

She  burst  into  tears. 

Nurse  Jennings  took  hold  of  her  hand  gently,  but  firmly, 
and  held  it.  She  did  not  express  any  surprise  or  concern,  or 
make  any  endeavor  to  stop  Dolores  from  weeping.  And  her 
manner,  her  touch,  made  Dolores  able  to  weep  on  unashamed, 
even  glad  in  the  relief  she  was  obtaining.  She  even  leaned 
her  head  against  the  nurse's  shoulder.  At  last  her  sobs 
ceased.     She  felt  about  for  something. 

"What  is  It,  Lady  Cannynge?" 

"A  handkerchief!"  Dolores  whispered. 

"Here  — here!" 

The  fingers  of  Dolores  closed  on  the  handkerchief.  She 
wiped  her  eyes.  Still  the  tears  came.  She  wiped  her  e3'es 
again,  shut  them  for  a  moment,  and  sat  up. 

"  You  said  once  to  me,"  she  began,  in  an  uneven,  and  some- 
times choked  voice,  "  that  if  everything  was  fair  every  woman 
ought  to  be  given  a  chance  to  have  one  child.  I  haven't  got  a 
child.     I  want  to  have  a  child !     I  v/ant  to  have  a  child  1  " 

Her  voice  rose  on  the  last  sentence. 

"Yes,  yes!     Is  that  it?" 

"  I  want  to  have  a  child." 

"  Many  women  that  are  married  and  have  no  children  feel 
it  terribly  just  like  you  do,  and  nobody  knows." 

Dolores  shook  her  head. 

"  Not  as  I  do!  "  she  said. 

"  Yes,  Lady  Cannynge." 

"  I  can't  bear  it  —  not  having  a  child.  The  women  you 
mean  want  a  child  only  for  themselves.  But  I  want  one  for 
myself  —  yes,  but  not  only  for  myself." 

"Your  husband?" 

"  Yes,  It  isn't  only  that  I  want  to  have  a  child,  I  need 
to  have  a  child." 

A  stern,  fixed,  and  almost  —  the  nurse  thought  —  terrible 
look  came  into  her  face.  She  sat  staring  straight  down  at  the 
floor. 

"  I  need  to  have  a  child !  "  she  repeated,  not  moving  her 
eyes,  and  in  a  voice  that  sounded  fatal. 

"  Don't  speak  like  that!" 

"Why?" 

Dolores  looked  up. 


36o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

*'  It  doesn't  sound  like  you  speaking.  Never  mind  about 
lady  or  not  lady.  But  I  don't  like  to  hear  any  woman  speak 
just  like  that." 

"No?     But  you  haven't  told  me  why." 

"  Because  it  doesn't  sound  to  me  natural." 

Dolores  was  silent  for  a  minute.     Then  she  said: 

**  Nurse,  do  you  know  how  old  I  am?  " 

"  No,  indeed." 

"  How  old  should  you  think  ?  " 

"  Perhaps  —  twenty-seven." 

"  I  am  thirty." 

"  Young  enough  still.  Why  shouldn't  you  hope  to  have  a 
child  yet  ?     There's  no  reason  against  it,  is  there  ?  " 

Her  eyes  met  the  eyes  of  Dolores  in  a  straight,  clear 
look. 

"  Only  —  so  far  as  I  know  —  that  God  hasn't  chosen  that 
we  should  have  a  child." 

"Ah!" 

"  And  because  of  that "  Dolores  paused,  looked  at  Nurse 

Jennings,  then  moved  a  little  nearer  to  her — "because  of  that 
my  husband  —  my  husband " 

"Yes?  Oh,  what  is  it.  Lady  Cannynge?  I  can  see  that 
you  had  much  better  say  it." 

"  He  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more." 

She  looked  down  again,  and  a  slow  flush  crept  over  her  face, 
up  to  her  hair,  down  to  her  neck.  Slowly  it  died  partly  away, 
leaving  her  face  and  neck  mottled  with  red. 

"  Never  say  that !  "  cried  Nurse  Jennings.  "  Oh,  Lady 
Cannynge,  never  say  that !  " 

"  It's  true.  He  never  will  care  for  me  again  unless  I  give 
him  a  child." 

"  Everybody  must  care  for  you." 

"  And  d'you  think  I  want  my  husband  to  care  for  me  in 
that  v/ay !  "  Dolores  cried,  with  a  fierceness  that  startled  the 
nurse. 

"  You  do  care  about  liim!  "  she  said  slowly. 

"Yes.     That's  why  I  cried." 

There  was  a  long  silence. 

"And  that's  why  I  hate  this  apartment!"  Dolores  resumed 
in  a  voice  that  was  now  low  and  steady,  and  almost  with- 
drawn. "  And  that's  why  I  hate  Rome.  I  want  to  get  away. 
I  want  to  get  him  away.  But  he  won't  come.  I  shall  never 
be  able  to  make  him  come.     And,  do  you  know "     Again 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  361 

she  put  her  hand  on  the  nurse's  arm,  "  He  blames  me  because 
we  have  no  child." 

"  Does  he  say  so  ?  " 

"  No.  But  he  makes  me  feel  it,  every  day  and  all  the 
time." 

"That's  hov\^  men  are!  And  the  Holy  Mother  knovi^s  it," 
said  Nurse  Jennings,  speaking  v^ith  a  strong  brogue. 

"  If  they  are  like  that  then " 

"What  is  it,  Lady  Cannynge  —  my  dear?" 

"  They  oughtn't  to  be  surprised  at  anything  a  woman  does." 

"But  they  are  though,  always!  And  what's  more  they  al- 
ways will  be." 

Dolores  began  to  cry  again,  but  without  passion,  silently, 
with  a  sort  of  almost  childlike  helplessness. 

"Why  are  they  like  that?"  she  murmured. 

"  Because  it's  Nature !  It's  so  and  has  got  to  be  so,  Lady 
Cannynge  —  my  dear.  Now,  don't  cry  any  more.  You  had 
to  at  first,  and  it  was  good  you  should  cry.     But  not  now!  " 

She  spoke  firmly,  almost  like  one  issuing  a  command. 

And  Dolores,  to  her  own  surprise,  almost  immediately  was 
able  to  obey  her. 

They  talked  quietly  for  a  little  while.  Then  Nurse  Jen- 
nings got  up  to  go.  She  was  standing  close  to  the  portrait  of 
the  old  man  when,  pursuing  their  conversation,  she  said: 

"  It  would  be  a  good  thing,  though,  if  men  had  it  brought 
home  to  them  a  good  deal  oftener  than  they  do." 

"  You  mean  that  it  isn't  always  our  fault  ?  "  said  Dolores. 

"  And  I'd  go  farther  than  that,  Lady  Cannynge,"  returned 
Nurse  Jennings  with  her  characteristic  decision,  which  was 
free  from  any  hint  of  temper  or  violence.  "  I'd  say  that  it 
is  just  as  often,  and  perhaps  oftener,  their  fault  than  ours. 
Bring  that  home  to  a  man  and  you  make  him  a  better  man! 
but  it  is  difficult  to  bring  anything  home  to  them!" 

She  was  evidently  pleased  with  her  phrase. 

When  she  was  saying  good-bye  she  said : 

"  May  I  give  you  a  kiss?  " 

"Yes  — do.'' 

When  the  kiss  was  given  Nurse  Jennings  added : 

"  I  don't  like  to  see  you  unhappy.     If  I  had  the  chance  I 
should  like  to  bring  it  home  to  your  husband." 
"What?" 

"  What  he's  made  you  suffer." 
"No  —  no!"   Dolores  cried  vehemently.     "  Prom.ise  me — • 


362  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

promise  me  on  your  honor  you'll  never  tell  him  what  I've  told 
you  to-night." 

And  Nurse  Jennings  promised,  sincerely  intending  to  keep 
that  compact. 

When  she  had  gone  Dolores  walked  restlessly  about  the 
room  for  some  minutes.  Twice  she  stopped  before  the  por- 
trait of  the  old  man  and  stood  looking  into  his  eyes.  Then, 
as  if  coming  to  some  mental  decision,  she  sat  down  at  her 
writing-table  and  quickly  wrote  the  following  note: 

"  Palazzo  Barberini. 

"  Wednesday  night. 
"  I  am  so  glad  you  are  back  in  Rome.     Come  and  see  me 
to-morrow  at  five.     It  is  terribly  dull.     I   don't  know  what 
to  do  with  myself  to  pass  the  time.     I  often — " 

She  paused  and  hesitated  for  some  minutes.  Then,  frown- 
ing and  compressing  her  lips,  she  wrote : 

"  long  to  be  back  on  the  lake. — D.  C." 

She  put  this  note  into  an  envelope,  and  directed  it  to  Cesare 
at  the  Palazzo  Carelli. 


CHAPTER  XXIX 

When  he  found  that  Dolores  had  left  Villa  D'Este,  in  a  fit 
of  violent  anger  Cesare  abandoned  Bellagio  and  returned  to 
his  father's  place  near  Monza.  Donna  Ursula  was  still  there 
with  his  mother.  He  had  known  he  would  find  her  there. 
That  was  partly  why  he  returned.  In  his  anger  sometimes 
Cesare  showed  a  certain  childishness,  or  boyishness,  that  al- 
most quarreled  with  his  strong  masculinity.  He  wanted  to 
punish  Dolores  for  what  she  had  done.  He  felt  sure  that  she 
had  an  instinctive  dislike  for  little  Donna  Ursula.  So  he 
hurried  back  to  Donna  Ursula.  When  he  recovered  from  his 
fit  of  temper  he  had  greatly  strengthened  his  mother's  hopes. 
She  wrote  to  Montebruno:  "  Cesare  seems  much  more  inclined 
for  the  match  now  than  he  was  at  first.  He  v/ent  away  to  his 
uncle's  villa  at  Bellagio,  but  hastened  back.  Evidently  Ursula's 
loveliness  and  charm  are  making  an  impression.  I  begin  to 
have  great  hopes  of  him." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  363 

•   Montebruno  passed  the  news  on  to  Princess  Mancelli. 

Little  Ursula,  too,  \vas  well  satisfied.  She  was  incapable 
of  any  violent  joy  or  violent  grief.  Her  appearance  of  a  doll 
was  not  wholly  deceptive.  But  she  was  a  doll  with  a  will, 
and  she  had  set  her  will  to  work  upon  Cesare  Carelli.  She 
intended  to  marry  him.  She  knew  he  did  not  intend  to  marry 
her.  That  made  no  difference.  He  was  a  great  match  and 
that  fact  appealed  to  her  cold  little  spirit.  But  she  had  an- 
other reason  for  wishing  to  marry  him.  His  strong  dark  and 
very  masculine  appearance  appealed  to  her.  Although  scarcely 
capable  of  love  she  was  capable  of  desire.  She  desired  Cesare 
as  her  husband,  and  she  was  accustomed  to  have  her  wishes 
gratified.  From  babyhood  she  had  been  spoilt  by  a  foolish 
mother  and  a  doting  father.  Not  clever  enough  to  judge 
relative  values,  but  sharp  enough  to  see  what  an  extraordinary 
amount  of  deference  and  anxious  desire  great  wealth  arouses 
in  Italy,  she  thought  herself  a  little  personage  of  immense  im- 
portance. The  arbitrary  look  in  her  bright  blue  eyes  was 
indicative  of  her  temperament.  As  she  wanted  Cesare  Carelli, 
it  must  come  about  that  she  would  have  him. 

She  was  not  in  a  great  hurry.  She  was  very  young.  There 
was  no  need  to  be  in  a  fuss.  But  Cesare  Carelli  must  learn 
what  she  wanted,  and  then  learn  that  he  was  there  upon  the 
earth  to  give  it  to  her.  After  his  sudden  return  from  the 
Villa  Sirena,  Donna  Ursula  began  to  think  that  his  powers  as 
a  pupil  were  in  course  of  development.  This  was  all  very 
right  and  proper.  She  was  not  elated,  but  she  was  not  dis- 
satisfied. 

But  when  Cesare's  fit  of  temper  was  over  he  began  to  hate 
more  than  ever  the  ice  which  was  trying  to  take  possession 
of  his  fire.  The  cool  presence  of  Donna  Ursula  made  him 
put  a  fresh  value  on  Dolores.  He  had  compared  Dolores  with 
Princess  Mancelli  and  loved  her  for  her  softness.  Now  he  com- 
pared her  with  Donna  Ursula  and  he  adored  her  for  her 
warmth.  She  was  the  midway  perfect  woman,  feminine  but 
surely  passionate,  delicate,  evasive,  but  how  full  of  latent 
promises ! 

And  did  not  that  flight  which  had  at  first  so  angered  him, 
even  that,  hold  out  a  promise? 

For  it  surely  implied  fear  of  him!  And  the  woman  who  is 
afraid  is  the  woman  who  is  impressed. 

He  emerged  at  last  from  his  fit  of  anger,  and  all  the  mas- 
culine spirit  in  him  told  him  that  he  must  follow  Dolores. 


364  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

The  whole  of  his  strong  nature  was  now  fully  roused.  That 
evening  under  the  trellis  and  on  the  vaporino  had  given  the 
finishing  touch  to  his  ardent  passion.  He  had  told  his  secret 
under  the  trellis.  But  in  the  little  harbor  of  the  villa  on  the 
point,  when  Dolores  had  looked  at  him  by  the  light  of  the 
match,  he  had  told  her  another  secret.  Often  he  thought  of 
that  last  secret  and  now  he  was  glad  he  had  told  it.  He  did 
not  believe  in  great  reticence  with  a  woman,  and  he  knew  he 
had  cleared  the  ground.  Now  Dolores  knew  all  there  was  to 
know.  If  she  continued  to  be  friends  with  him  that  would 
mean  all  that  he  wished.  It  must  now  be  one  thing  or  the 
other.  The  flight  of  Dolores  might  seem  to  indicate  her  in- 
tention of  putting  an  end  to  their  friendship;  but  when  Cesare 
had  emerged  from  his  anger  he  often  read  the  card  she  had 
sent  him.     And  as  he  looked  at  the  words  he  said  to  himself, 

"  After  that  night  she  wouldn't  have  sent  it  unless "    And 

the  blood  sang  in  his  ears  though  his  lips  were  smiling. 

Vv^'ithout  knowing  it,  led  perhaps  by  his  star,  he  came  to 
Rome  and  called  at  Palazzo  BarberinI  at  the  psychological 
moment.  It  was  as  if  as  he  arrived  before  a  door  it  swung 
softly  open. 

When  he  received  the  note  of  Dolores  he  was  conscious 
of  Vv'hat  seemed  a  strong  shock  in  his  heart,  and  his  whole  body 
responded  to  it.  His  nature  leaped  up.  His  youth  felt  as  if 
it  held  within  it  immeasurable  stores  of  conquering  vigor. 
And  he  saw,  like  a  stricken  enemy  at  his  feet,  the  man  who 
had  been  a  prey,  who  had  crept  along  under  the  chains  that  a 
woman  had  hung  about  him.  Now  he  was  free  indeed,  free 
to  win  for  himself  the  only  thing  he  wanted.  And  that  note 
which  he  held  for  so  long  in  his  hand,  which  he  read  again 
and  again,  told  him  surely  that  he  must  win  it. 

At  five  o'clock  that  day  he  rang  the  bell  at  the  door  of  the 
Cannynge's  apartment. 

Carlino  opened  the  door.  Dolores  was  living  with  a  very 
small  establishment,  and  had  no  maestro  d'l  casa  and  no  foot- 
man. 

"  Is  the  signora  at  home?  "  asked  Cesare. 

The  boy  gazed  steadily  with  his  anxious  dark  eyes. 

"Are  you  Don  Cesare  Carelli?"  he  asked. 

"  Si." 

"  The  signora  Is  at  home." 

"Only  to  me!  Only  to  me!"  thought  Cesare  exultantly, 
as  he  laid  down  his  hat  and  followed  Carlino. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  365 

Instinctively  he  braced  his  muscles  like  a  man  feeling  his 
strength,  testing  it,  revelling  in  it. 

Carlino  suddenly  looked  round.  Cesare  said  something  kind 
and  familiar  to  him,  and  Carlino  began  to  smile. 

"  Don  Cesare  Carelli,"  announced  the  boy  at  the  door  of 
the  green  and  red  drawing-room. 

The  awnings  and  blinds  were  drav/n,  and  the  big  room  was 
rather  shadowy.  Cesare  saw  Dolores  a  good  way  off.  She 
was  standing  up,  and  at  once  he  received  from  her  an  im- 
pression of  decision.  Even  her  tall  figure  looked  decisive  as 
she  came  to  meet  him.  And  when  he  saw  her  face  just  for  a 
moment  he  was  startled.  It  looked,  he  thought,  strangely  pale, 
and  her  eyes  seemed  to  him  intensely  dark,  shadowy,  mys- 
terious. This  woman  was  not  surely  "  Gazelle."  There  was 
nothing  espiegle  in  this  face.  Her  hand  returned  his  grip 
with  a  sort  of  pressure  that  he  thought  odd  from  a  woman. 
It  was  almost  like  the  pressure  some  one  might  give,  would 
probably  give,  when  making  a  compact.  And  when  she  spoke 
Cesare  thought  that  even  her  voice  held  some  change  in  its 
tones. 

"  We  two  are  all  alone  in  Rome,"  she  said.  "  Doesn't  one 
—  don't  you  feel  in  this  room  as  if  we  were  all  alone  in  a 
desert  place?  " 

For  an  instant  he  did  not  reply,  and  in  that  instant  he  was 
aware  of  the  completeness  of  the  silence  within  the  palace. 
It  almost  went  to  his  head. 

"But  your  husband!"  he  said.     *' Isn't  he  in  the  desert?" 

"  No,  he's  still  at  Frascati.  But  he  may  possibly  come  in 
to-day.     He  comes  over  sometimes." 

She  spoke  in  a  careless  voice.  Cesare  was  silent.  For  a 
moment  —  he  did  not  exactly  know  why  —  he  felt  almost 
ill  at  ease. 

"  How's  the  little  boy?  "  he  asked,  as  they  sat  down. 

What  had  any  little  boy  to  do  with  them?  He  had  had  to 
cast  about  for  a  conversational  opening.  He  was  suddenly 
angry  with  himself.  He  leaned  forward,  and  before  Dolores 
was  able  to  answer  he  said : 

"  If  your  husband  is  going  to  stay  on  in  Frascati  I  am  going 
to  remain  here  in  Rome.  There  is  no  one  here,  no  one  whom 
we  know  at  least.  We  could  scarcely  find  a  safer  place  for 
meeting  in.  Let  me  see  you  sometimes,  and  not  here  in  the 
palace." 

He  thought  of  Carlino. 


366  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"Yes.     Why  not?"  said  Dolores. 

"  Why  did  j'ou  rush  away  from  Villa  D'Este?" 

He  drew  his  chair  nearer  to  hers.  Something  in  her,  this 
oddness  of  decision,  perhaps,  excited  him  strangely,  almost 
terribly.  But,  after  that  scene  in  the  little  harbor  by  match- 
light,  he  meant  to  keep  himself  in  control,  so  long  at  least 
as  he  knew,  or  believed,  she  wished  it. 

"  I  had  such  bad  news  from  FrascatI  about  little  Theo." 

"That  was  why!"  he  exclaimed. 

His  exclamation  was  almost  like  a  laugh. 

*'  I  thought  I  would  go  back.     It  was  kinder." 

"Tome?" 

"  It  was  a  sudden  impulse." 

"  Do  you  yield  always  to  your  sudden  impulses?" 

"  No.     Remember  I  am  not  Italian." 

She  was  beginning  obviously  to  manage  the  conversation,  to 
turn  it  towards  a  lightness  which  at  the  moment  he  hated. 

"Oh!"  he  exclaimed,  and  not  lightly.  "Don't  take  the 
conventional  view  of  the  Italians.  We  are  very  much  like 
other  people." 

"  But  you  are  half  English.  You  can't  speak  for  the  na- 
tion." 

"  I   only  want   to   speak   for   myself." 

"Hush!"  Dolores  said,  in  a  different  voice.  "You  did 
that  under  the  trellis  at  Cadenabbia,  once  and  for  all.  You 
let  me  into  your  life  then." 

"  Only  into  a  part  of  my  life.  And  j^ou  —  you  have  never 
let  me  into  your  life." 

"  No,"  she  said,  almost  sternly. 

"  I  wish  —  may  I  draw  up  one  of  the  blinds?"  said  Cesare. 
"  The  sun  is  not  very  strong  now.     It  is  almost  evening." 

"Yes.     Shall  we  go  for  a  walk?" 

"Oh,  but " 

He  hesitated.  He  scarcely  knew  what  he  wished.  Then 
he  remembered  her  v/ords  about  her  husband. 

"  And  if  we  miss  your  husband?  "  he  asked. 

"  It  does  not  matter." 

"  Then  let  us  go." 

He  went  to  one  of  the  windows  and  pulled  up  the  blind. 
As  he  came  back  to  Dolores  she  was  standing  before  the  Len- 
bach  portrait,  gazing  fixedly  at  it.  He  came  and  stood  be- 
side her. 

"  You  are  very  fond  of  that  picture?  "  he  asked. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  367 

"  I  admire  it  very  much.     What  do  you  think  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  think  that  old  man  looks  as  if  he  had  seen  everything, 
and  knew  everything." 

"  The  future  too  ?  "  she  asked,  turning  and  looking  at  him. 

"  No  one  can  know  the  future." 

"  Wait  a  moment.  I  will  put  on  my  hat.  I  shall  be  very 
quick." 

She  left  him. 

"  She  seems  very  careless  about  her  husband ! "  Cesare 
thought. 

He  was  still  before  the  picture,  and  was  still  looking  at  it. 
But  he  no  longer  really  saw  it. 

"  Can  he  —  can  he- ?" 

His  mind  was  occupied  with  Theodore  Cannynge,  with  the 
menace  at  Frascati,  and  with  the  ways  of  faithless  husbands. 
What  had  occurred  at  Frascati  since  the  flight  from  Villa 
D'Este? 

Dolores  returned  with  her  hat  on  and  a  parasol  in  her  hand. 

"  Where  are  we  going?  "  she  asked. 

And  there  was  a  new  liveliness,  a  new  gaiety  in  her  voice. 

"Anywhere — the  Villa  Medici,  the  Borghese!" 

"  Let  us  go  to  the  Villa  Medici.     I  know  a  sculptor  there." 

"  Not  there  now  ?  " 

"  Indeed  he  is.  He  has  just  come  back  from  Valenciennes. 
He  has  the  good  taste  to  love  Rome  at  this  time  —  as  we  do." 

As  they  passed  through  the  hall  Dolores  said  to  Carlino: 

"  I  don't  think  the  signore  will  come,  Carlino,  but  if  he 
does  tell  him  I've  gone  out  for  a  stroll,  and  may  not  be  back 
for  an,  hour." 

"  Or  two !  "  Cesare  said  in  English  to  her. 

"  Or  two,  Carlino." 

They  went  out.  And  again  Cesare  wondered  about  her 
husband. 

"Why  should  we  go  to  see  your  sculptor?"  he  said,  as 
they  descended  the  hill  towards  the  Piazza  Barberini. 

"  I  like  him.  And  it  is  an  excuse  to  go  and  wander  about 
that  delicious  garden." 

"  Now.  I  understand!" 

He  spoke  energetically,  almost  joyously. 

"  No,  but  I  really  like  to  see  the  sculptor  too,"  she  said. 

"  I  don't  think  I  understand  you  to-day." 

"  Don't  you?     Did  you  at ?  " 

She  stopped  speaking.     But  he  did  not  let  the  subject  go. 


368  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Did  I  at  Cadenabbia,  you  mean !  Yes,  that  night  I  think 
I  did.  And  you  understood  me — il  don't  mean  at  Caden- 
abbia—  too  well." 

She  said  nothing.  They  crossed  the  piazza  and  came  into 
the  Via  Sistina.  Few  people  were  about.  Two  or  three 
sleepy  looking  men  yawned  in  the  doorways  of  the  deserted 
antiquity  shops,  and  a  veteran,  in  a  long  white  blouse,  snored 
among  a  white  assemblage  of  small  plaster  statuettes,  with  his 
head  against  the  pedestal  of  the  listening  Mercury. 

*'  You  see  it  is  the  desert !  "  he  said. 

"  Yes.     We  shall  certainly  not  meet  any  one  we  both  know." 

They  walked  on  in  silence  till  they  came  to  the  obelisk 
that  stands  between  the  top  of  the  Spanish  steps  and  the 
church  of  the  Sacre  Coeur.  A  man  was  leaning  on  the  stone 
balustrade  looking  out  over  Rome.  They  could  only  see  his 
back,  broad,  with  rather  square  shoulders,  a  head  covered  with 
thick  hair,  and  crowned  with  a  soft  old  brown  hat.  But  just 
as  they  came  up  to  him  he  turned  slowly  round  and  showed 
Dolores  the  face  of  Pacci.  She  was  startled.  With  his  honest 
blue  eyes  he  looked  steadily  into  her  face  and  into  the  face 
of  Cesare.  Then,  without  any  salutation,  he  resumed  his 
former  position  and  stared  steadily  out  over  Rome. 

"Do  —  don't  you  think  he  knew  us?"  said  Dolores,  as 
they  went  on  towards  the  ilexes  and  the  mossy  fountain  before 
the  Academy  of  France. 

"  I'm  quite  sure  he  didn't.  Pacci  is  such  a  strange  fellow. 
He  may  have  been  dreaming  and  seen  us  as  if  in  his  dream." 

"  But  seen  us!" 

•'Why  not?" 

"  Of  course.     Why  not? "  Dolores  echoed. 

She  nodded  and  smiled  at  the  man  in  livery,  holding  a 
staff,  who  opened  the  gate  to  let  them  in  to  the  villa. 

"Monsieur  Leronx  travaille  aujourd'huif  "  she  asked. 

"Oui,  Madame!  "^ 

The  gate  shut  behind  them. 

"Let  us  go  to  the  studio  at  once,"  said  Dolores,  when  they 
had  ascended  in  silence  the  little  hill  which  leads  up  to  the 
big  and  almost  wild-looking  garden. 

"But  why?  Why  need  we  go  there  at  all?  There  is 
nobody  here." 

"  I  really  want  to  go  to  the  studio." 

"  If  we  do  go  he  is  sure  to  come  with  us  everj^^here." 

"  You  don't  know  him.     He  is  a  worker." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  369 

**  I  am  in  your  hands,"  said  Cesare, 

He  drew  a  little  nearer  to  her. 

*'  I  am  in  your  hands." 

"  It  is  the  last  studio  but  one." 

In  the  deep  shade  of  the  great  trees  they  turned  down  the 
path  to  the  left,  and  presently  came  to  a  door  on  which  was 
written  in  chalk  the  word  "  Leroux."  Near  this  name  was 
scrawled  the  following  legend,  "  La  petite  s'est  amenee  au- 
jourd'hui  a  6^  et  n'a  trouve  personne,"  evidently  by  a  model. 

"Am  I  to  knock?"  asked  Cesare  reluctantly. 

The  silence,  the  solitude  Avere  so  delicious  to  him,  so  tempted 
him,  so  wooed  him  to  the  truth,  that  he  hated  to  summon  a 
stranger  from  out  of  them. 

"  Please  do,"  said  Dolores. 

And  again  he  noticed  an  odd  decision  in  her  voice  and  man- 
ner. He  struck  on  the  wooden  door  with  his  stick.  There 
was  no  reply. 

"  He  isn't  here,"  he  said. 

"  Please  try  again,  a  little  louder." 

He  knocked  again  almost  violentlj^  This  time  he  heard 
steps.  The  door  was  opened,  and  a  small,  good-looking  man, 
with  gentle  dark  eyes  and  a  black  beard,  stood  before  them. 
He  wore  a  long  sculptor's  blouse,  and  was  smoking  a  pipe,  and 
his  hands  were  partially  covered  with  claj^  When  he  saw 
Dolores  he  bowed  and  smiled. 

"  A  friend  of  mine,  Don  Cesare  Carelli,"  she  said.  *'  Mon- 
sieur Leroux." 

The  sculptor  bowed  again  and  begged  Cesare  to  enter. 

"But,  Madame,  you  must  wait  for  a  moment,  please!"  he 
said. 

"  Go  on,  Don  Cesare!  "  she  said. 

As  he  went  in  Cesare  saw  a  naked  model  coming  away  from 
the  couch  on  a  platform  where  he  had  been  posing  as  a  dj  ing 
man  in  agony.  He  was  from  the  mountain  village  of  Anticoli, 
and  had  the  piercing  eyes  of  a  wild  animal. 

As  he  went  by  Cesare  into  a  room  to  the  left  of  the  studio 
to  put  on  some  clothes,  he  stared  at  him,  as  an  animal  might 
look  at  the  night  around  it  in  a  forest.  A  moment  afterwards 
the  sculptor  let  in  Dolores. 

He  was  at  work  on  a  large  statue  of  a  nude  man  lying 
in  a  twisted  attitude  on  a  bed,  with  an  expression  of  con- 
centrated mental  anguish,  but  also  of  acute  physical  pain  on 
his  face.     In  one  hand,  which  looked  flaccid,  and  as  if  life  were 


370  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

dying  out  of  it,  was  a  bottle,  scarcely  retained  by  the  large 
nerveless  fingers.  By  the  feet  and  hands  of  the  man,  and  by 
something  in  the  contour  of  his  face,  and  the  arrangement 
of  his  disordered  hair,  his  low  position  in  the  scale  of  hu- 
manity was  made  manifest  to  the  spectator.  Nevertheless  he 
was  handsome,  and  in  his  grief  and  pain  there  was  something 
of  dignity,  something  even  of  pride,  as  if  the  soul  held  a  virtue 
which  perhaps  the  body  was  expiating.  A  strong  modern 
realism  was  impressed  on  the  whole  work. 

Dolores,  Cesare  and  the  sculptor  stood  before  it,  and  almost 
immediately  the  model,  in  a  pair  of  thin  trousers  and  a  jacket 
turned  up  to  the  chin,  entered  silently  on  bare  feet,  sat  down 
in  a  corner,  and  gazed  at  them  with  his  fierce  eyes  full  of 
remoteness.  Cesare  asked  for  an  explanation  of  the  subject, 
and  the  sculptor,  speaking  in  French,  with  a  very  gentle  voice, 
said: 

"  It  was  suggested  to  me  by  a  paragraph  I  once  read  in 
the  Petit  Journal.  A  man  of  notoriously  evil  character,  a 
wrestler  at  country  fairs,  had  a  mistress  to  whom  he  was  pas- 
sionately attached.  One  night  he  came  back  from  a  visit  to 
a  village  at  some  distance  from  his  home  and  found  that  his 
mistress  had  deserted  him  for  his  own  brother.  He  took 
poison  and  died.  He  was  found  unclothed  as  he  is  there.  I 
have  tried  to  show  in  face,  even  in  his  whole  bod}-,  that  he 
has  within  him  in  spite  of  his  low  origin,  his  brutal  nature,  his 
pain,  and  his  abject  despair,  the  thing  that  can  never  be  wholly 
undignified." 

"  What  is  that  ?  "  said  Cesare. 

"But,  Monsieur  —  love." 

"  You  think  love  cannot  be  undignified ! "  said  Cesare, 
wheeling  round  and  gazing  at  the  little  man  in  the  long  blouse. 

"  Not  wholly  undignified,"  returned  the  sculptor,  with  mild 
firmness.  "  However  much  a  flame  may  flicker  it  never  loses 
the  fierce  glory  of  fire." 

On  the  last  words  his  voice  became  suddenly  sonorous. 

"  I  like  that  idea,"  said  Dolores,  "  and  I  think  you  have 
shown  it." 

They  talked  together  for  some  time.  Always  the  model 
remained  in  his  corner,  never  removing  his  eyes  from  them 
except  once,  for  a  moment,  when  he  swiftly  rolled  and  lit  a 
cigarette.  The  studio,  in  which  there  was  not  a  trace  of 
luxury  or  of  comfort,  but  in  which  there  was  the  home-like 
and   familiar  look  of  work  well   loved  by   the  worker,   was 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  371 

cool.  The  whiteness  of  plaster  and  marble  was  soothing. 
And  the  great  deserted  garden  outside  seemed  to  exhale  an 
atmosphere  of  peace,  and  even  of  romance,  which  penetrated 
to  this  bare  and  spacious  chamber  and  made  it  almost  a  sanc- 
tuary. 

"What  would  I  give  to  be  a  worker!"  said  Dolores  at 
last,  looking  round  her  slowly.  "To  lose  oneself  In  workl 
What  a  comfort,  what  a  blessing  that  must  be." 

She  got  up. 

"  I'm  afraid  to  stay  any  longer  here.  It  makes  me  too  en- 
vious," she  said. 

"  I  pity  all  those  who  do  not  work,"  said  the  sculptor  very 
simply. 

*'  As  hundreds  of  misguided  people  pity  all  those  who  do,'* 
said  Dolores,  going  towards  the  door. 

She  nodded  to  the  model,  who  put  up  one  bony  hand  to  his 
jacket,  held  it  under  his  chin,  then  got  up,  and  bowed  with  a 
curious  alertness. 

"  He  looks  as  if  he  could  make  a  spring  like  a  panther," 
said  Dolores.  "  Good-bye,  Monsieur  Leroux.  How  I  envj'; 
you!" 

She  gazed  out  over  the  garden,  which  from  here  looked  al- 
m.ost  like  a  forest  glade  with  its  great  trees,  its  tangle  of  tall 
grass  and  rank  growth  of  herbage. 

*'  Who  could  think  we  were  In  Rome?  " 

The  sculptor  looked  at  her,  with  his  quiet,  almost  tender 
smile.  I 

"  I  dine  out  here  in  the  garden  at  night.  I  am  the  only 
pensionnaire.  The  director,  my  comrades,  all  are  far  away. 
Would "  he  hesitated,  then  added,  "  would  you  not,  ma- 
dame,  and  your  friend,  dine  with  me  to-night?  I  will  have 
the  table  put  there  In  the  midst  of  the  high  grass.  It  will  be 
like  dining  in  the  depths  of  a  jungle  when  the  darkness  has 
come.     The  food  will  be  very  simple  —  very  simple!" 

He  glanced  from  Dolores  to  Cesare,  and  he  saw  that  the 
pretty  tall  woman  whom  he  so  much  admired  was  hesitating, 
with  her  eyes  fixed  on  the  face  of  the  handsome  Italian  whom 
he  had  never  seen  before. 

"  Thank  you,  monsieur.  We  will  come.  It  will  be  a  fete 
for  us,"  she  answered,  at  last. 

But  there  was  an  odd  something,  that  was  akin  to  a  dry- 
ness, in  her  voice  as  she  spoke. 

"  At  half-past  eight,  when  the  darkness  Is  falling,  madame." 


372  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

And  Dolores  echoed : 

"  At  half-past  eight  when  the  darkness  is  falling." 

When  the  sculptor  shut  his  door  Dolores  said  to  Cesare: 

"  I  will  meet  you  under  the  obelisk  at  twenty  minutes  past 
eight." 

"  But  you  aren't  going  now !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  But  let  us  stay  here  till  dinner-time.  Where  else  could 
we 

"  I  must  go  home  now.  I  wish  to  see  if  my  husband  has 
come  from  Frascati." 

"Why?"  said  Cesare,  with  an  almost  brutal  intonation. 

"At  twenty  minutes  past  eight!"  Dolores  replied. 

And  without  another  word  she  left  him. 

He  watched  her  going  down  the  path  in  the  flickering  light 
and  shade.  But  he  did  not  follow  her.  She  was  rousing  the 
brutality  in  him  by  the  way  she  was  treating  him.  Yet  he 
only  loved  and  desired  her  the  more.  He  did  not  under- 
stand her.  The  fact  that  she  had  sent  for  him,  after  what 
had  occurred  on  Lake  Como,  made  him  feel  certain  that  she 
not  only  wanted  his  love,  but  that  she  meant  to  accept  it. 

Nevertheless  there  was  something  in  her  demeanor  that 
puzzled  him  and  made  him  vaguely  uneasy,  something  elusive, 
at  moments  almost  repellent.  She  seemed  now  ready  to  defy 
public  opinion,  and  careless  of  her  husband.  Yet  she  had 
hurried  home  to  see  if  he  was  in  the  palace.  Why?  Cesare 
longed  to  know  what  had  recently  happened  at  Frascati.  He 
felt  as  if  an  immense  change  had  occurred  in  the  life  of  Do- 
lores since  he  had  seen  her  on  the  lake.  Perhaps  —  though 
it  seemed  almost  impossible  —  she  had  not  understood  the 
relations  existing  between  her  husband  and  Mrs.  Denzil,  and 
had  just  discovered  their  nature.  Perhaps  —  could  some  ar- 
rangement have  been  come  to  between  husband  and  wife  in 
regard  to  their  married  life? 

Cesare  felt  that  his  passion  grew  in  uncertainty. 

At  eight  o'clock  he  was  at  the  top  of  the  Spanish  steps. 
While  he  waited  he  paced  up  and  down  rather  quicklj%  He 
remembered  how  he  had  contemplated,  had  been  forced  to  con- 
template, the  misery,  even  the  angry  torture  of  Lisetta,  how 
he  had  felt  a  sort  of  contempt  for  it,  as  a  healthy  man  often 
feels  —  in  opposition  to  his  reasoning  faculty  —  when  he  looks 
at  a  man  stricken  with  an  ugly  disease. 

Now  he  began  to  have  a  creeping  comprehension  of  sucH 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  373 

mental  and  physical  torment  as  he  had  obh'ged  Lisetta  to  un- 
dergo.    If  such  a  fate  as  hers  should  be  reserved  for  him! 

As  this  thought  flashed  through  his  mind  it  seemed  to  him 
as  if  all  the  forces  of  his  nature  leaped  up  to  repel  it. 

And  just  then  he  saw  Dolores  coming  from  the  Via  Sis- 
tina.  She  stopped  at  the  street  corner  by  the  house  some- 
times called  "  the  tempietto,"  and  gave  some  money  to  a 
robust  and  cheerful  one-legged  man.  Then  she  came  on 
slowly.     Cesare  went  to  meet  her. 

"  I  have  been  here  a  long  time,"  he  said. 

"Have  you?     But  am  I  late?" 

"Did  you ?"   Cesare  hesitated.     He  did  not  want  to 

ask  a  direct  question.  But  something  irresistible  compelled 
him  to  do  so.  "Did  you  find  your  husband  at  the  palace?" 
he  said. 

"  No." 

He  was  going  to  say  something  —  he  scarcely  knew  what  — 
when  Dolores  exclaimed  in  a  lively  voice: 

"  You  don't  know  how  I  am  looking  forward  to  our  even- 
ing. I  feel  like  a  child  out  of  school.  One  gets  so  sick  of 
always  doing  the  same  things.  Every  dinner  in  our  society  is 
like  every  other  dinner.  One  gets  accustomed  to  the  mo- 
notony, of  course,  and  scarcely  notices  it  until  one  escapes 
from  it.  To-night  we  have  escaped.  Are  you  glad?"  His 
eyes  were  fastened  on  her  face. 

"  And  this  is  only  the  beginning,"  he  said,  not  answering 
her  question,  except  with  his  eyes. 

"  How  —  the  beginning?  " 

"  The  beginning  of  your  escape.  You  must  go  farther. 
You  must  distance  every  pursuer." 

"  There  are  no  pursuers.     There  will  be  no  pursuers." 

Again  he  thought  of  her  husband.  If  she  would  only  tell 
him  something!  There  was  an  air  almost  of  recklessness 
about  her  this  evening. 

"  How  do  you  know  that?" 

"What  does  it  matter  if  there  are?  But  we  are  both  talk- 
ing great  nonsense.     Bon  soir!     Nous  voila  encore  une  fois! 

The  porter  smiled  deferentially.  Again  he  let  them  into 
the  garden,  which  now  looked  mysterious  as  it  gave  itself  to 
the  warm  darkness  of  the  night,  mysterious,  solitary  and  irn- 
mense.  For  its  confines  were  no  longer  easily  visible  as  in 
the  light  of  day.  Fireflies  were  beginning  to  dance  their 
rounds.     Their  sparks  came  from  the  shadows  like  tiny  musical 


374  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

notes  out  of  stillness.  The  masses  of  leaves  that  clothed  the 
great  trees  were  silent  and  motionless.  The  walks  were  de- 
serted. A  studio  in  the  center  of  the  garden,  standing  alone, 
showed  no  light. 

And  the  director  and  the  pcnsionnaires  were  far  away,  In 
mountain  valleys,  perhaps,  by  sandy  plages,  or  by  the  banks  of 
those  long  rivers  of  France  to  which  the  poplars  are  faith- 
ful.    How  they  were  far  away  to-night! 

"There  is  a  light!     Look!"  said  Dolores. 

They  stood  still  on  the  gravel  and  looked  through  the  trees 
to  the  left.  There,  in  the  midst  of  the  tall  rank  grass,  was 
a  round  yellow  gleam,  and  by  it  a  dark  object  which  moved 
and  bent,  and  rose  up  and  disappeared. 

"Our  dinner-table!"  said  Dolores.     "Monsieur  Leroux!  " 

She  sent  her  voice  through  the  trees  melodiously. 

And  suddenly  Cesare,  in  the  calm  and  unembarrassed  way 
of  Italians,  let  loose  a  loud  tenor  voice  in  "  La  donna  e  mo- 
bile," throwing,  apparently,  his  whole  nature  into  the  light- 
hearted  song,  and  making  a  noise  so  powerful  as  to  be  almost 
astonishing. 

"But  what  a  voice  you  have!"  said  Dolores,  when  he 
stopped. 

"Why  not?"  said  Cesare. 

"  You  never  told  me  you  sang." 

"I  hardly  ever  do.  But  to-night  —  well,  this  is  not  like 
other  nights." 

He  took  her  hand  in  the  shadows. 

"  We  sing  when  there  is  something  to  make  us  sing." 

Dolores  drew  away  her  hand,  but  gently. 

"  And  you  chose  the  '  donna  e  mobile,'  "  she  said.  "  Why 
was  that?  " 

"  I  did  not  know  at  the  moment.  But  no  doubt  I  was 
thinking  of  you." 

"  You  think  me  variable  ?  " 

"  At  Cadenabbia  you  did  not  take  away  your  hand.  Why 
do  you  take  it  away  to-night?  When  I  came  to  the  palace 
to-day  you  wished  to  com.e  here.  When  we  were  here  you 
would  not  stay.     You  hurried  back  to  the  palace.     Now ' 

"  I  am  not  rushing  away  now." 

"  No.     But  how  can  I  tell  what  you  will  do?" 

"  Often  we  do  not  know  ourselves  what  we  shall  do." 

"  But  there  are  people  who  can  make  others  do  as  they 
wish." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  375 

His  voice  had  changed. 

"  Do  you  think  you  are  one  of  them?"  asked  Dolores. 

**  Love  gives  some  people  strange  powers,"  said  Cesare. 

"  And  from  others  it  takes  away  the  powers  they  possess." 

"  Powers  of  resistance,  perhaps.     Is  that  what  you  mean?" 

She  did  not  answer. 

"  Tell  me  —  when  you  sent  me  that  note  yesterday  what  did 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  Monsieur  Leroux! " 

Dolores  sent  her  voice  again  into  the  darkness. 

"Alio!" 

"Here  he  is!" 

Their  host,  who  had  put  on  a  dark  gray  suit  and  a  lar2;e 
and  loose  black  tie,  came  to  meet  them,  beaming  w^ith  pleasure 
and  cordiality  that  seemed  very  simple,  led  them  at  once  into 
w^hat  he  called  "  the  jungle,"  and  installed  them  at  the  small 
dinner-table  which  was  closely  surrounded  by  grass  that  grew 
over  two  feet  high.  The  servant,  a  big  and  dark  Italian,  im- 
mediately placed  before  them  a  bowl  of  smoking  vegetable 
soup,  and  poured  red  wine  into  their  glasses.  Dolores  was 
not  hungry.  She  would  rather  not  have  eaten  at  all.  But 
she  concealed  her  lack  of  appetite  for  fear  of  hurting  her  host's 
feelings.  He  was  deeply  and  openly  interested  in  the  food, 
minutely  described  to  his  guests  what  they  might  expect,  and 
when  it  came  took  care  to  draw  them  into  an  ample  discus- 
sion of  its  merits  or  demerits. 

"  This  needed  an  onion  to  make  it  savory,"  he  would  sa}% 
and  the  talk  would  turn  upon  onions;  or  "they  do  not  un- 
derstand the  use  of  the  cabbage  in  Italy,"  and  for  some  minutes 
cabbages  would  be  the  theme  of  their  discourse.  And  always 
the  fireflies  danced  their  rounds  above  the  delicate  heads  of 
the  grasses,  and  the  darkness  seemed  to  draw  closer  above  and 
around  the  globe  of  light  that  illumined  the  faces  of  Dolores 
and  the  two  men. 

She  took  her  share  in  the  talk  for  a  while,  but  presently 
Monsieur  Leroux  and  Cesare  fell  into  a  discussion  from  which, 
quite  naturally,  she  was  able  to  detach  herself.  She  listened 
at  first,  now  and  then  putting  in  a  word.  And  she  noticed 
how  easily  her  two  companions  had  slipped  into  acquaintance- 
ship. They  belonged  to  different  worlds,  they  had  led  lives 
almost  extraordinarily  different.  Yet  a  sort  of  freemasonrv', 
the  freemasonry  of  sex,  now  drew  them  together.  Already 
they  surely  understood  each  other,  as  Cesare  would  never  un- 


376  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

derstand  her,  as  even  Theo,  after  .all  these  years  did  not  un- 
derstand her,  and  as,  at  this  moment,  she  wished  no  woman  to 
understand  her. 

There  was  no  moon.  The  night,  though  clear  and  starry, 
was  dark.  Dinner  was  over.  The  servant  had  gone  away 
with  the  plates  and  dishes,  leaving  only  some  fruit  and  wine 
on  the  table.     Cesare  was  offering  the  sculptor  a  big  cigar. 

Dolores  heard  them  discussing  cigars.  Both  of  them  spoke 
with  an  animation  that  seemed  to  her  strong  and  unforced. 
Cesare's  eyes  were  often  upon  her.  She  believed  that  he  was 
deliberately  leaving  her  in  her  silence.  Did  he  think,  could  he 
think,  it  would  operate  in  his  favor?  Wliat  did  he  think, 
what  must  he  think,  after  her  note  to  him?  It  seemed  to  her 
that  as  he  talked  his  voice  grew  stronger,  firmer,  his  manner 
more  animated.  In  the  narrow  circle  of  lamplight  his  gestures 
were  often  only  half  revealed.  She  saw  his  muscular  brown 
hand,  with  the  glow  upon  it,  looking  unusually  alive,  then 
shadowy,  strange,  as  a  movement  took  it  out  into  the  darkness. 
But  the  light  always  shone  in  his  eyes.  To-night  she  was  con- 
scious of  his  youth,  his  strength  and  the  glory  of  it,  as  she  had 
been  when  he  came  up  from  the  lake.  She  looked  at  the  dark- 
ness of  the  night,  the  stars,  the  towering  forms  of  the  black 
trees,  the  soft  and  mysterious  duskiness  of  the  vegetation  in 
whose  bosom  they  were  sunk  as  in  a  sea;  at  the  fireflies  full 
of  an  animation  that  was  magical,  and  that  seemed  remote 
from  all  earthly  activities,  and  she  could  scarcely  believe  she 
was  in  Rome,  only  a  few  minutes'  walk  from  the  palace  in 
which  she  had  suffered  so  much,  in  which  she  was  destined, 
perhaps,  to  suffer  so  much  more.  And  with  a  stronger  force 
than  she  had  ever  felt  before  fatalism  seemed  to  sweep  through 
her  like  a  dark  and  tidal  wave.  The  night  above  her  and  about 
her  was  like  a  decree.  The  stars  were  despotic,  no  longer 
gentle  in  their  distant  wonder  and  beauty,  A  breathing  of 
will  rose  from  this  ancient  garden  that  was  like  a  glade  in 
some  forest  remote  and  virgin.  She  felt  as  if  forces  were  laying 
their  hands  upon  her,  were  talcing  her  —  whither  she  would, 
or  would  not?  She  did  not  even  know.  And  she  felt  that 
Cesare  also  was  dominated  by  these  forces,  though  he  did  not 
know  it,  as  she  did,  because  his  temperament  and  his  nature 
and  his  intellect  were  different  from  hers.  She  drew  her 
chair  softly  a  little  away  from  the  table  and  back  into  the 
darkness. 

What   were    they   talking    of?     Vaguely   she   heard    names 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  377 

—  Raphael,  Bellini,  Michael  Angelo.  The  sculptor,  warmed 
by  the  generous  wine,  was  becoming  expansive.  He  spoke  of 
the  transition  when  artists,  no  longer  satisfied  with  the  effect 
that  they  could  produce  with  marble,  and  seeking  to  express 
religious  cm.otion,  became  painters  of  Madonna,  saints,  angels, 
and  II  Bambino.  What  would  Cesare  think  of  all  that?  But 
he  seemed  interested,  even  intent.  When  she  saw  his  eyes 
turned  upon  her,  however,  she  knew  well  that  he  did  not  care 
what  was  said.  He  was  with  her  in  the  night.  Pie  was  going 
away  presently  alone  with  her.  And  for  him  that  was  enough. 
Leroux  spoke  of  Leonardo  da  Vinci,  of  his  many  talents,  and 
of  his  love  for  music,  and  Dolores  found  herself  listening  with 
a  greater  intentness,  she  did  not  know  why.  He  mentioned  the 
nam.e  of  Lorenzo  de  Medici,  and  quoted,  in  French,  Lorenzo's 
romance : 

"  Oh !  que  la  jeunesse  est  belle 
Et   ephemere!     Chante   et  ris 
Et  sois  heureux  —  si  tu  le  veux 
Et  ne  compte  pas  sur  demain." 

"  One  of  our  pensionnaires  has  set  it  to  music,"  he  said. 
"  It  was  done  at  our  concert  last  May." 

"  But  It  is  better  in  my  Italian,"  said  Cesare.  "  Now 
listen,  and  tell  me  if  it  is  not." 

He  leaned  forward  a  little  to  Dolores  and  the  darkness, 
and,  in  his  firm,  clear  voice,  and  carefully  giving  all  the  music 
of  the  words,  he  repeated: 

"  Quant   e  bella   giovinezza, 
Che   se  fugge  tuttavia. 
Chi  vuol  esser  lieto,  sia: 
Di   doman   no  c'e   certezza." 

"  I  like  It  very  much  in  my  language,"  said  the  sculptor, 
who  had  already  been  in  Rome  two  years  but  who  could  not 
speak  six  consecutive  words  of  correct  Italian. 

"  And  you?  "  asked  Cesare  of  Dolores. 

"And  you?"  he  said  again  in  a  moment,  for  she  had  not 
answered. 

She  had  drawn  her  chair  so  far  back  into  the  darkness  that 
he  could  not  see  her  face  distinctly,  but  he  saw  her  put  her 
hand  up  to  it  quickly.     Then  she  said: 

"  I  think  it  incomparably  more  charming  in  Italian." 


378  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

She  paused,  and  then  added  to  Leroux: 

"  You  know  how  I  delight  in  French,  but  this  seems  to  me 
much  more  musical,  and  much  more  real,  in  Italian." 

"  I  will  sing  it  to  you,"  said  Cesare.  "  There  is  a  setting 
of  it  by  some  Italian,  I  forget  whom." 

And  he  lifted  up  his  powerful  voice  of  a  strong  and  young 
man,  and  sang  the  Italian  words: 

"  Quant   e   bella   glovinezza, 
Che  se  fugge  tuttavia. 
Chi  vuol  esser  lieto,  sia: 
Di   doraan   no  c'e   certezza." 

And  to  Dolores,  while  she  listened,  it  seemed  that  in  the  voice 
of  Cesare  at  that  moment  there  was  something  imperative  which 
was  linked  with  the  despotic  will  of  the  night.  She  felt  as 
if  he  was  dominated,  but  as  if  he  was  also  an  instrument  of  dom- 
ination. He  had  been  chosen  by  forces  he  did  not  understand 
to  execute  a  decree  of  which  he  knew  nothing.  He  sang  the 
verse  twice,  and  the  second  time  with  much  more  emotion. 
Evidently  the  true  meaning  of  the  little  song  had  gained  upon 
him  as  he  sang.  Ah!  how  beautiful  —  how  beautiful  is  youth! 
Dolores  forgot  it  was  Cesare  who  sang.  Already  the  tears 
had  come  into  her  eyes  when  Cesare  repeated  the  words.  Now 
they  came  again.  She  was  thirtj%  Her  youth  was  slipping 
away  —  for,  alas !  she  was  a  woman.  And  the  morrow  was 
uncertain.  She  might  live  to  be  old.  But  she  might  have 
only  a  short  time  to  live,  perhaps  a  very  short  time.  She  felt 
that  her  hands  were  slightly  trembling  as  they  rested  clasped 
on  her  knees.  If  she  were  to  die  in  unhappiness,  misunder- 
stood, sterile !  If  she  were  to  die  and  if  her  death  were  not  to  be 
regretted!  If  she  were  to  die  and  leave  no  gift  behind  her, 
no  gift  to  recall  her  each  day  to  the  memory  of  one  she  loved, 
no  gift  to  awaken  each  day  gratitude  in  a  heart  that  once  had 
certainly  loved  her!  If  she  were  to  die  and  only  be  remembered, 
if  she  were  remembered  at  all,  as  a  poor  little  failure! 

"  Chi   vuol   esser  lieto,   sia : 
Di  doman  no  c'e  certezza." 

Her  heart  changed.  It  was  as  if  into  it  there  burst  a  new 
inmate.     And  when  Cesare  stopped  singing,  she  said: 

"  What  a  fool  the  man  or  woman  is  who  avoids  happiness 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  379 

from  the  fears  or  the  scruples  connected  with  to-morrow! 
Don't  you  think  so,  Monsieur  Leroux?" 

"  I  do  indeed,"  returned  the  sculptor,  in  his  soft  voice. 
"  But  since  I  was  a  very  young  student  in  Paris  I  have  lived 
for  the  day  always." 

"  I  don't  know  —  but  I  don't  believe  I  have  ever  lived  for 
the  day,"  said  Dolores. 

"  You  must  learn  to,"  said  Cesare.  "  You  could  learn  to. 
One  may  be  dead  to-morrow.     Chi  lo  saf  " 

And  again  the  terror  of  death  came  upon  Dolores. 


CHAPTER  XXX 

It  was  late  when  Dolores  got  up  to  go.  Again  and  again  she 
had  thought,  "  It  is  time.  I  must  go."  Again  and  again  she 
had  looked  into  Cesare's  face  and  she  had  postponed  the  moment 
of  departure.  The  distant  chime  of  a  clock  sounding  eleven 
brought  her  at  last  to  a  decision. 

"  I  must  leave  our  jungle,"  she  said. 

She  looked  around,  searching  the  darkness.  She  brushed  her 
fingers  lightly  over  the  heads  of  the  tall  grasses. 

"  I  cannot  believe  it  is  in  the  midst  of  Rome,"  she  added,  in 
a  low  voice,  and  as  if  speaking  to  herself. 

"If  only  it  were  not!"  said  Cesare.  "If  only  it  were 
really  the  jungle!  " 

Dolores  turned,  just  in  time  to  see  Ce^^are  glance  at  the 
sculptor  with  a  meaning  that  was  unmistakable.  By  a  v/ord 
she  might  have  nullified  its  effect.  She  knew  that,  and  just 
for  a  moment  she  thought  of  speaking  the  word.  But  the 
new  inmate  in  her  heart  told  her  to  keep  silence. 

"Chi  vuol  esser  Ucto,  sia:  di  (Ionian  no  ce  certezza! "  she 
thought. 

And  then  she  thought  of  her  husband  at  Frascattl.  Prob- 
ably at  this  moment  he  was  sitting  in  the  red  loggia  with  Edna 
Denzil. 

"  I  wish  it  w^ere,"  he  said.  "  I  wish  it  were  really  far  away, 
out  in  the  wilds." 

Monsieur  Leroux  shrugged  his  small  shoulders. 

"  I  like  to  pretend  that  it  is  while  I  am  dining,  but  to  know 
in  my  heart  that  my  studio  is  within  a  few  yards.  I  am  very 
poor-spirited,"  he  said. 


38o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

His  mild  eyes  were  smiling,  but  Dolores  thought  she  detected 
In  their  smile  a  trace  of  irony.     She  held  out  her  hand. 

"  Thank  you  for  your  festa.  This  has  been  the  most  char- 
acteristic evening  I  have  ever  spent  in  Rome.  One  forgets 
so  many  evenings.     But  yours  I  shall  never  forget." 

Again  she  brushed  her  fingers  over  the  tall  grasses  as  if  in 
farewell. 

"  Thank  you,  Madame.     Good-by." 

The  two  men  exchanged  a  warm  hand  grip.  Cesare  spoke 
some  words  of  thanks  with  a  strong  sincerity  that  evidently 
delighted  his  host,  even  though  Leroux's  acute  intelligence  was 
fully  awake  to  the  fact  that  the  Italian's  gratitude  was  not 
merely  aroused  by  a  dinner. 

They  left  him  standing  in  the  midst  of  the  grasses  with  his 
hand  on  the  lamp,  and  as  they  walked  slowly  away  up  the  dark 
path  that  skirts  the  high  wall  of  the  garden  beyond  the  studios 
they  saw  the  yellow  light  travel  away  to  the  left  and  disappear. 
Then  they  heard  a  door  shut  decisively. 

Cesare  stood  still.  He  drew  a  deep  breath  and  looked  at 
Dolores.  She  had  stopped  beside  him,  almost  mechanically. 
Both  of  them  had  perhaps  been  arrested  in  their  slow  progress 
through  the  dark  by  that  sound,  which  was  like  a  last  word 
sent  after  them  in  the  night  by  the  sculptor. 

"Did  you  hear  how  he  shut  that  door?"  said  Cesare.  "I 
am  sure  he  is  going  to  spend  the  night  in  the  studio." 

'^'^But ^" 

"  There  is  an  inner  room  where  the  model  went  to  dress.  I 
don't  think  you  saw  it.  Probably  there's  a  sofa  there,  some- 
thing that  he  can  sleep  on.     He  has  made  us  free  of  the  garden." 

"  The  man  at  the  gate  must  be  waiting  for  us." 

"  Let  him  wait.     Which  way  shall  we  go  ?  " 

Dolores  walked  on,  and  took  the  path  to  the  right,  but  she 
went  slowly.  Cesare  could  not  see  her  face  clearly  now,  and 
perhaps  she  knew  it,  and  felt  herself  safe  from  observation. 
For  her  face  was  set  and  almost  rigid,  and  in  her  forehead 
there  were  two  deep  lines.  The  gentleness,  the  wistfulness 
characteristic  of  her  had  disappeared.  There  rose  to  the  sur- 
face the  fierceness  that  lies,  perhaps  far  down,  in  every  creature 
that  knows  how  to  love  and  to  sulifer. 

In  silence  they  came  to  the  solitary  studio,  that  was  like  a 
little  house  in  the  midst  of  a  wood.  Here  Cesare  stopped.  He 
caught  the  hand  of  Dolores. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  381 

"  You  are  not  going  home  yet.  I  shall  not  let  you  go  yet," 
he  said. 

His  words  came  to  her  through  a  deep  breathing,  and  his 
hand  was  hot  and  hard  upon  hers. 

"  You  are  not  to  play  with  me,"  he  said.  "  I  am  not  going 
to  allow  that.  You  wrote  to  me.  You  asked  me  to  come  to 
you,  after  that  night  on  the  lake.  You  wrote  that  often  you 
longed  to  be  back  on  the  lake.  I  have  got  the  letter.  I  shall 
always  keep  it.  You  knew,  when  you  wrote  it,  what  it  meant, 
the  only  meaning  it  could  bear  to  me  after  what  happened  at 
Como.  You  are  not  one  of  the  women  who  think  they  can 
treat  badly  any  man  just  because  he  loves  them.  Those  are 
mean  w^omen  with  hateful  natures  —  canailles  —  canailles.  You 
are  not  like  that.  Love  —  love  like  mine  cannot  be  treated  so 
by  a  woman  like  you.  That  Is  impossible.  And  you  know 
that  as  well  as  I  do." 

All  the  time  he  was  speaking  his  hand  was  opening  and  clos- 
ing sharply  on  hers.  His  own  words  made  him  excited,  sent 
through  him  a  heat  that  was  almost  of  anger.  And  this  anger 
roused  within  him  all  the  arrogance  that  was  part  of  the  new 
manhood  which  had  caused  him  to  break  with  Princess  Mancelli. 

"  You  think,"  he  said,  and  now  he  closed  his  hand  and 
pressed  hers  till  she  felt  pain,  **  that  I  will  allow  myself  to  be 
played  with  by  any  woman,  however  much  I  love  her. 
I  know  there  is  a  sort  of  love  which  will  sink  to  any  humilia- 
tion, will  endure  anything  —  as  a  dog  will  from  its  master.  I 
despise  such  love.  I  hate  such  love.  I  will  never  show  it. 
No,  I  have  not  made  myself  free  for  that!     No,  no!  " 

"  And  I  ?  "  she  thought.  "  Shall  I  humiliate  myself  because 
of  my  love?  Shall  I  creep  to  the  feet  of  my  husband  to  beg, 
to  fawn  for  his  love  ?  " 

And  her  heart  echoed  Cesare's  last  almost  bitter  exclamation. 

*'  Come,"  he  exclaimed. 

In  front  of  the  little  house  was  a  stone  bench,  with  a  high 
wooden  fence  behind  it.  At  each  end  of  the  bench,  on  a  stone 
pedestal,  an  antique  bust  coldly  regarded  the  night.  From 
above  a  gigantic  ilex  tree  sent  down  a  protective  darkness.  Ce- 
sare  drew  Dolores  to  this  seat  with  an  imperative  force  that 
was  almost  brutal.  And  when  he  did  so  it  seemed  to  her  as  if 
the  obscurity  closed  around  them  like  shutting  doors,  and  as  If 
the  silence  in  the  great  garden  became  more  Intense,  heavier, 
like  silence  In  a  secret  place  whither  no  one  could  ever  penetrate. 


382  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Rome  seemed  to  withdraw  to  an  immense  distance.  She  no 
lon2;er  had  any  sensation  of  being  in  Rome. 

"  I  told  you  something  of  my  life,"  Cesare  said,  pressing  her 
hand  down  against  his  knee.  "  I  told  you  what  I  have  suffered. 
To  break  away  I  h.ad  to  conquer  many  things,  even  what  some 
here  in  Rome  would  call  perhaps  my  sense  of  honor.  Ah!  but 
how  false  all  that  tradition  is!  There  was  really  no  honor  in 
the  question.  I  had  to  be  free.  Every  man  has  rights.  I  took 
mine  at  last.  But  I  did  not  take  them  for  nothing.  I  did  not 
take  them  because  I  wanted  to  go  into  a  new  misery.  Don't 
you  see,  can't  you  feel  how  a  man  is,  must  be,  after  such  a  lesson 
as  I  have  had,  such  a  thing  as  I  have  done?  But  can't  you  — 
can't  you  see  ?  " 

"  Yes,"  Dolores  said,  in  a  very  low  voice. 

"  I've  been  unhappy,  hideously  unhappy  in  love,"  he  con- 
tinued rapidly.  "  I  want  to  be  happy  in  love.  And  you  — 
you  want  to  be  happy.  It's  the  only  thing  in  which  there  is 
real  happiness  for  us  who  are  young,  who  can  feel.  I  have  no 
one  but  you " 

"  You  have  Donna  Ursula!  "  said  Dolores. 

She  did  not  know  why  she  said  it.  The  words  checked 
Cesare's  outburst  as  a  douche  of  cold  water  checks  a  rising 
flame. 

There  was  a  silence.     Then  he  said : 

"  That  is  true.     And  you  have  your  husband  ?  " 

In  the  second  silence  something  moved  in  the  tree  above 
them. 

"What's  that?"  said  Dolores. 

The  leap  of  her  nerves  showed  her  her  bodily  condition.  For 
an  instant  she  had  thrilled  with  fear.  In  that  instant  brusqueljj 
she  had  moved  nearer  to  Cesare. 

"A  bird,"  he  answered,  putting  one  arm  behind  her. 

"  Of  course." 

She  tried  to  laugh. 

"  We  shall  wake  all  the  garden  up,"  she  added.  "  We  ought 
to  go."  But  something  in  the  touch  of  his  arm  made  her  wish 
to  stay.  For  it  told  her  that  here  she  was  wanted,  she  was 
loved,  and,  strangely,  mysteriously,  but  powerfully,  it  told  her 
something  else.  In  the  darkness  she  seemed  to  see  the  eyes 
of  Lenbach's  old  man  regarding  her  steadily. 

"  Would  you  give  my  life  into  the  hands  of  Donna  Ursula?  " 
Cesare  said. 

His  voice  was  lower. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  383 

"  If  you  would  you  are  more  cruel  than  I.  For  I  only  want 
to  take  you  away  from  some  one  who  does  not  love  you." 

"  Hush!  "  she  whispered  sharply. 

"  Who  does  not  love  you,"  he  repeated,  inflexibly.  "  Who 
does  not  know  how  to  love  you." 

Suddenly  his  arm  closed  firmly  about  her,  with  an  almost 
hard  fierceness,  he  leaned  down  and  kissed  her,  and  kept  his 
lips  pressed  on  hers. 

"  That  is  how  I  love  you,  that  is  how  I  love  you." 

Dolores  sat  very  still.  She  made  no  response.  She  suffered 
his  kiss.  It  told  her  much,  far  more  than  any  words  could  have 
told  her,  however  true,  and  spoken  with  however  great  a  sin- 
cerity. And  as  she  sat  quite  still,  almost  like  one  petrified, 
she  was  asking  herself  again  and  again: 

"  Shall  I  accept  it?     Shall  I  take  it?     Shall  I  use  it?  " 

The  remote  soul  of  her  was  speaking,  and  she  hated  its  voice, 
almost  as  one  honorable  must  hate  a  treachery.  But  it  was 
ungovernable.  And  Cesare  took  away  his  lips  and  kissed  her 
again. 

'*  I  knew  I  should  make  you  love  me  at  last!  I  knew  I 
should  make  you  love  me!  " 

There  was  in  his  voice  a  sound  of  triumph  that  was  without 
offense,  because  it  was  wholly  natural,  manly,  and  strong. 

"  All  that  I  did,  I  did  for  you,  long  before  you  cared  In 
the  least  for  me.  Did  you  even  know,  did  you  suspect  then  — 
all  that  time  ago  —  why  I  needed  to  be  free?  I  don't  believe 
you  did.  I  knew  I  should  have  to  wait.  I  was  ready  to  wait. 
I  —  I've  been  patient!  " 

Dolores  drew  away  from  his  arm.  Her  sense  of  treachery 
was  increasing  as  Cesare's  sincerity  became  more  apparent  to 
her,  as  he  opened  his  heart  simply,  without  self-consciousness  or 
fear.  She  knew  that  he  believed  in  the  woman  she  essentially 
was,  and  that  he  did  not  understand,  nor  suspect,  the  wom.an 
she  had  become.  But  had  she  even  yet  become  that  woman? 
Now  she  began  to  struggle  against  the  inexorable  change  in  her- 
self, she  began  to  try  to  be  what  Cesare  thought  she  was. 

"  I  didn't  —  I  haven't  said  I  cared  for  you.  I  have  never 
said  it,"  she  murmured. 

Again  something  moved  in  the  tree  above  them.  There  was 
a  prolonged  rustle.  The  tiny  dark  shadow  of  a  bird  in  flight 
passed  between  them  and  the  stars.  Very  far  off  a  bell  chimed 
in  some  distant  place  below  them. 

"  You  needn't  say  it.     After  what  I  was,  what  I  did  that 


384  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

night  on  Como,  you  wrote  and  asked  me  to  come  to  you.  You 
came  here  with  me  to-night.     That  is  enough.     If  you  were 

another  woman,  any  other  woman "  he  broke  off.     "  That 

is  enough !  "  he  said  again. 

This  triumph  that  flowed  out  of  faith  almost  horrified  Do- 
lores. 

"  Don't  believe  in  me!  "  she  said. 

But  against  her  will,  her  voice  pleaded  for  belief.  Too  much 
she  wanted  to  rest  on  something.  She  had  not  the  courage 
to  throw  away  such  a  great  gift,  to  fall  back  into  the  void  of 
her  life.  And  yet  she  had  not  as  yet  the  other  courage  to  be 
determined  and  ruthless  in  evil,  to  take  what  was  offered  to 
her  with  selfishness  so  that  she  might  have  something.  Perhaps 
she  would  have  summoned  up  the  first  courage  but  for  the 
thought  that  had  gnawed  at  her  mind  so  long,  and  that  had  re- 
ceived a  new  and  a  terrible  strength  from  the  touch  of  Cesare's 
arm,  of  his  lips.  She  dared  neither  to  go  into  the  room,  nor 
dared  she  to  shut  the  door  and  remain  outside. 

And  she  got  up  from  the  stone  bench  slowly,  and  trembling. 

"Don't   go!     You   mustn't   go!" 

Cesare  sat  still  and  seized  her  hand,  with  the  gesture  surely 
of  a  master.  To-night  for  the  first  time  she  realized  com- 
pletely what  she  had  let  loose  in  him.  Long  ago  she  had 
mysteriously  known  that  he  might  have  an  influence  on  her  life. 
But  she  had  not  known  what  an  influence  she  might  have  upon 
his.  Perhaps  her  ignorance  had  been  owing  to  the  fact  that 
she  had  not  cared  to  know. 

"  Why  should  you  go?  " 

If  she  could  have  given  him  the  true  reason! 

"Let  us  walk  a  little.  I  don't  know  —  that  bird  moving 
about  has  made  me  feel  restless.  I  can't  sit  still  here  in  the 
dark." 

He  got  up. 

"Were  vou  reallv  startled?" 

"Yes."' 

"Frightened,  with  me  beside  j'ou!" 

"  I  believe  I  was." 

"  How  strange  women  are!  "  he  said,  almost  with  a  boyish- 
ness. 

Instinctively  she  had  found  just  the  words  to  check  his 
passion  without  seeming  deliberately  to  repress  it.  She  had 
made  him  feel  protective,  had  put  herself  almost  in  the  place  of 
a  child. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  385 

"  If  I  could  be  always  beside  you !  If  I  could  always  pro- 
tect you!  "  he  said,  adoring  her  softness,  and  thinking  of  Lisetta 
Mancelli. 

Almost  savagely  the  understanding  of  their  lack  of  true 
liberty  rushed  upon  him.  The  moment  was  deceitful,  had 
tricked  him.  Rome  lay  around  them.  How  soon  would  come 
the  light,  when  all  eyes  would  open,  when  the  staring  city 
would  be  revealed.  He  had  a  violent  longing,  which  tore  him, 
to  take  Dolores  away  and  make  her  his,  and  keep  her  his. 
Secrecy  was  hateful  to  this  love  of  his,  and  instinct  told  him 
that  the  immense  difference  between  Dolores  and  Princess  Man- 
cell!  would  make  a  situation  in  the  heart  of  hypocrisy  —  such 
as  his  for  long  years  with  Lisetta  —  impossible  with  Dolores. 
There  was  something  too  sensitive  in  her  to  endure  that. 

"  If  I  could  take  you  away!  "  he  added,  almost  in  a  tone  of 
despair. 

And  again  Dolores  was  almost  horrified  by  the  simplicity 
with  which  he  assumed  from  her  recent  actions  that  her  love 
was  akin  to  his.  She  walked  towards  the  great  open  space,  the 
more  formal  garden,  that  stretches  away  from  the  arcade  of 
the  Academy  of  France. 

"  Don't  let  us  think  of  impossibilities,"  she  said. 

"Where  are  you  going?" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  want  to  get  away  from  the  trees  for  a 
moment." 

"But  why?     And  we  may  meet  Leroux." 

"  You  said  you  were  sure  he  was  going  to  sleep  in  the 
studio." 

"  He  may  not.  He  may  change  his  mind.  If  he  does,  he 
must  come  this  way  to  go  to  his  room  in  the  palace." 

"What  does  it  matter  if  we  meet  him?  He  knows  we  are 
walking  about  in  the  garden." 

"  How  can  he  know?  " 

After  a  slight  pause  Dolores  said: 

"I  saw  you  look  at  him  just  before  you  said  good-by  to 
him." 

He  thought  there  was  resentment  In  her  voice,  and  he  felt 
as  if  suddenly  she  were  trying  to  elude  him.  Yet  she  remained 
in  the  garden  with  him  at  this  hour.  But  she  did  not  turn 
towards  the  gate.  The  Italian  In  him  told  him  that  her  conduct 
must  mean  one  thing  and  one  alone,  and  that  he  was  a  fool, 
and  less  than  a  man,  not  to  act  brutally  upon  his  knowledge. 
But  the  Englishman  In  him  whispered  something  else.     And 


386  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

the  clash  of  the  two  voices  sent  doubt  and  confusion  through 
him. 

"  It  Is  true.  I  did.  I  was  afraid  he  might  think  it  his 
duty  to  accompany  you  to  the  gate.  And  I  could  not  stand 
that.  I  had  to  seize  the  opportunity.  I  have  waited  so  long. 
I  have  given  up  so  much." 

''What?" 

"  For  a  long  while  I  have  lived  as  none  of  my  friends  live 
in  Rome,"  he  said,  in  a  low,  but  firm  voice. 

Dolores  was  sharply  conscious  of  a  certain  brutality  in 
Cesare's  nature,  which  grated  on  her  sensitiveness,  the  deli- 
cacy of  the  good  woman  in  her,  but  which  gave  more  force 
to,  and  as  it  were  proved  just,  the  conviction  which  was  now 
forever  with  her.  She  thought  of  Nurse  Jennings.  In  that 
moment  she  linked  Cesare  and  the  nurse  together  in  her  mind. 
They  stood  together  for  certain  things,  unabashed,  almost  terri- 
bly frank,  clotlied  in  naturalness. 

"  Perhaps  you  cannot  realize  what  it  has  cost  me,"  he  said. 
"  For  years  it  is  true  that  I  was  like  a  man  in  prison.  But  at 
least  I  was  not  alone  there.  And  I  was  loved  there,  too  much 
loved,  persecuted  by  love.  Ever  since  then,  since  I  broke  away, 
I've  lived  as  men  of  my  age  don't  live  and  I've  been  lonely  — 
lonely." 

He  paused.  Then  he  repeated,  with  evidently  growing  ex- 
citement, and  an  accent  that  was  almost  savage: 

"  I've  been  lonely.  You've  made  me  lose,  waste,  throw  away 
like  a  lot  of  rubbish,  months  of  my  youth.  We  can't  get  any- 
thing back,  once  it's  gone.  But  —  and  it's  the  only  thing  we 
can  do  —  we  can  live  doubly  to  make  up.  Dolores,  you  owe 
me  reparation." 

His  voice  was  almost  choked. 

"You  owe  me  reparation!  "  he  repeated.  "  No!  Don't  let 
us  go  out  there!  " 

"Yes,  yes!" 

He  seized  her  hand,  held  her  where  they  were  under  the 
trees.  By  his  touch  she  knew  the  anger  that  was  boiling  within 
him,  a  sort  of  rage  of  Italian  youth  and  strength  determined 
to  wipe  out  that  sterile  past  of  which  he  was  perhaps  even 
secretly  ashamed.  All  the  smiles  of  his  gay  companions  were 
with  him  now  in  the  night.  All  their  joys  of  the  flesh,  and 
of  the  spirit  gained  through  the  flesh,  clamored  about  him. 
He  looked  on  the  lost  months  lying,  like  withered  leaves,  at 
his  feet*.     And  something  that  was  almost  like  fury  seized  him. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  387 

It  was  perhaps  mainly  physical.  It  was  perhaps  the  revenge 
of  nature  upon  him. 

*'  Only  you  can  make  up  to  me  for  all  I  have  lost.  Are 
you  going  to  make  up  to  me?  " 

In  his  voice  there  was  a  sound  that  was  almost  threatening. 
By  that  sound,  by  the  rage  that  was  sweeping  him  beyond  all 
conventionalities,  that  was  stripping  him  to  the  natural  man, 
Dolores  was  able,  was  forced,  to  understand  what  she  was  In 
his  life.  With  an  almost  frightful  swiftness  she  compared 
herself  In  relation  to  Cesare  with  herself  in  relation  to  her  hus- 
band ;  the  woman  wanted,  angrily,  even  with  rage,  desired ; 
the  woman  unwanted,  neglected,  put  gently,  persistently  aside, 
very  often  perhaps  forgotten.  And  she  had  no  anger  for  Ce- 
sare. But  she  had  some  fear.  Till  now  she  had  not  fully 
realized  what  Cesare  was.  And  she  feared  her  own  loveless- 
ness.  Her  honesty  awoke,  was  cruel,  fighting  with  longings  she 
would  not  avow.  And  his  hot  recklessness  woke  in  her  some- 
thing responsive,  that  was  not  love  but  that  was  connected  with 
love;  a  desire  to  be  happy  for  a  moment  at  all  costs,  to  forget 
for  a  moment  at  all  costs,  to  lose  herself  in  the  storm,  to  let 
love  beat  upon  her  with  all  his  winds  and  his  lashing  rains, 
play  about  her  with  all  his  lightnings,  fill  her  ears  with  his 
thunders  unrestricted. 

In  that  moment  she  knew  why  good  women  sometimes  yield, 
and  are  condemned.  She  felt  as  if,  by  a  searchlight,  she  saw 
down  to  the  bottom  of  human  nature. 

Acting  wholly  on  Impulse,  she  drew  her  hand  violently  from 
Cesare's.  But  directly  she  was  free  she  came  nearer  to  him, 
she  put  both  her  hands  on  his  shoulders,  and  looked  Into  his 
face. 

"  Cesare,"  she  said,  "  I  understand.  I  understand  all.  But 
you've  been  too  honest  with  me,  I  think." 

She  shivered  a  little. 

"Too  honest?"  he  said. 

He  stood  perfectly  still,  almost  like  a  boy,  looking  Into  her 
face. 

"  Yes,  yes." 

"Why?" 

"  I'm  not  worth  It." 

"  Zitto !  "  he  exclaimed. 

And  he  moved.  But  she  pressed  her  hands  down  on  his 
shoulders.  And  he  remembered  the  strange  grip  of  her  hand 
when  he  had  come  into  the  twilight  of  the  great  room  In  Pal- 


388  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

azzo  Barberini.  Some  force  that  he  did  not  understand  was 
hidden  in  her  softness. 

"  No,  no,  I'm  not  worth  it.  I  oughtn't  to  have  asked  you  to 
come.  I  oughtn't  to  have  written  that  I  longed  to  be  back  on 
the  lake." 

He  looked  straight  into  her  eyes,  and  said: 

" '  Chi  vuol  esser  lido,  sai;  di  doman  no  c'e  certezza.'  You 
are  thinking  of  to-morrow,  I  can  see  it  in  your  eyes.  And 
yet  you  said  only  to-night  that  the  man  or  woman  who  avoids 
happiness  from  the  fears  or  the  scruples  connected  with  to- 
morrow is  a  fool." 

"  Yes,  but  —  if  I  am  thinking  of  to-morrow  not  for  myself, 
but  for  you !  " 

A  strange  look  had  come  into  her  eyes,  a  look  of  troubled 
sincerity  that  went  right  into  his  heart.  He  caught  her  face  be- 
tween his  hands. 

"  Oh,  Dolores!  "  he  whispered.  "  How  I  want  you!  How 
I  want  you !  " 

And  suddenly  tears  rushed  into  his  eyes,  tears  born  out  of 
fire. 

"  How  I  want  you  —  want  you !  Do  you  feel  it  ?  Do  you 
feel  it?" 

His  hands  on  her  cheeks  were  burning.  She  felt  a  strange 
sensation,  as  if  Cesare  were  everything  and  she  were  nothing. 

"  You  have  blotted  out  everj-body,  everything,"  he  went  on, 
always  whispering,  and  with  the  tears  still  shining  in  his  eyes. 
"How  is  it?  How  can  it  be?  How  can  such  power  be? 
Everything  gone  —  but  j'ou!  It's  terrible.  But  I  won't  be 
your  slave  —  never !  Don't  think  it.  I've  learnt,  I've  suffered. 
I'm  a  man  now,  the  real  thing.  I'd  rather  kill  myself  and  have 
done  with  it  than  be  under  even  your  feet.  What  are  we  going 
to  do?  V/hat  ai'e  we  going  to  do?  Now  you  see  how  it  is! 
But  vou  ahvays  knew !  " 

"No!  "she  breathed. 

"You  knew!  You  knew!  Such  a  thing  can't  be  hidden. 
And  I  alwa3^s  meant  you  to  know." 

"  Not  till  to-night  —  not  really !  " 

"  And "  the  whispering  voice  nearly  died  away.     ''  Even 

to-night  not  really  —  yet." 

She  took  her  hands  from  his  shoulders,  put  them  on  his  hands, 
and  released  her  face.  The  serious  woman  who  had  said, 
"  You've  been  too  honest  with  me,"  was  gone.  The  intensity 
of  his  emotion,  the  bravery  —  so  it  seemed  to  her  —  with  which 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  389 

he  showed  it,  caught  away  brain  and  heart  from  watchfulness, 
from  quietude.  That  feeling  of  Cesare  being  everything,  her- 
self nothing,  increased  upon  her.  But  she  was  still  able  to  be 
conscious  that  it  was  dangerous. 

As  she  stood  free  of  Cesare  she  was  aware  of  a  soft  noise 
in  the  warm  and  scented  night.  It  came  from  the  fountain  that 
plays  In  the  open  space  before  the  Academy  of  France.  Again 
a  bell  chimed  in  the  distance  below.  It  was  answered  by  other 
bells.  Rome  was  there,  speaking  in  the  night,  calling  from 
tower  to  tower,  while  fountain  whispered  to  fountain  through 
all  the  gracious  city.  These  sounds  suddenly  —  she  did  not 
know  why  —  brought  her  husband  before  Dolores,  not  as  an 
accusing,  but  as  an  indifferent  figure,  intent  on  something 
which  had  killed  In  him  the  observant  faculty.  He  seemed  to 
be  standing  close  to  her  and  to  be  gone. 

She  shuddered  and  went  out  from  the  trees  before  Cesare 
could  prevent  her.     He  followed  her,  almost  with  a  spring. 

*'  It's  true!     It's  true!  "  he  said,  coming  up  with  her. 

She  stood  still  again.  Beyond  the  darkness  of  the  trees 
she  felt  less  lost  in  the  desire  of  another,  though  still  It  was 
very  dark.  But  she  saw  the  stars,  and  faint  forms  of  palm 
trees  standing  back  behind  great  hedges  of  box;  she  had  more 
sense  of  possible  freedom, 

"  Why  did  you  miove?  "  he  said,  almost  sternly. 

"The  fountain.  I  heard  it!  And  the  bells!  I  felt  —  I 
realized  suddenly  that  we  are  In  Rome.  I  —  I  don't  know !  I 
realized  Rome." 

"What  are  we  to  do?  Will  you  throw  ever}'thing  up  and 
come  awav  with  me  ?     Will  you,  Dolores  ?  " 

"Hush  — don't!" 

She  moved  again,  and  went  to  the  terrace  that  extends  along 
the  right-hand  end  of  the  palace  to  a  balustrade  from  which 
the  domes  and  towers  of  Rome  are  visible  looking  toward  St. 
Peter's.     By  the  balustrade  she  stopped,  and  turned. 

"  Just  now,"  she  said,  "  when  I  heard  the  fountain  and  the 
bells,  it  seemed  as  if  I  saw  some  one  near  me." 

"  Some  one !     Whom?  " 

"  My  husband !  " 

"What  are  you  saying?" 

He  turned  his  head  sharply  and  stared  into  the  dark. 

"And  if  you  had  seen  him!  "  he  said,  looking  again  into  her 
eyes.  "  Hasn't  he  let  you  see  him  for  years  with  Mrs.  Denzil? 
Hasn't  he  taken  you  to  Frascati  in  order  that  you  might  see  him 


390  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

with  her  there?  He  arranges  his  h'fe  to  suit  Mrs.  DenziL 
He  would  arrange  your  life,  too,  to  suit  her.  All  Rome  knows 
it.  He  is  her  lover,  of  course.  He  has  been  her  lover  for 
years." 

By  the  sound  of  his  voice  Dolores  knew  that  he  believed  him- 
self to  be  merely  expressing  a  truth  probably  long  ago  in  her 
possession. 

"  If  he  had  seen  you,"  he  added,  "  perhaps  it  would  have 
been  best.     Or  are  you  afraid  ?  " 

She  made  no  answer. 

"  Tell  me,  are  vou  afraid?  " 

"Afraid  of  what?" 

"  Of  your  husband  knowing." 

"  I  don't  know  whether  I  am  afraid  or  not.  I  don't  know 
anything  to-night." 

Abruptly  she  desired  to  make  him  understand  something  of 
her  helplessness,  because  she  knew  that  he  loved  her. 

"  There's  so  much  that  one  can  never  understand.  [Why 
should  you  care  for  me  ?     You  scarcely  know  me." 

"  I  know  you  better  than  he  does,  because  I  care." 

She  looked  down,  bending  her  head  a  little,  and  the  move- 
ment, the  line  of  her  neck,  woke  again  within  him  the  rage  of 
excitement,  of  impotent  anger  against  the  wasted  months  of 
which  he  had  spoken  to  her.  They  came,  like  successful  ene- 
mies, in  procession  before  his  mind.  And  in  his  heart  he  cursed 
them. 

**  Dolores,  don't  let  us  ask  each  other  questions.  What  does 
it  matter  why  —  or  how?     Youth   isn't  made   for  questions. 

It's  given  us  to  enjoy.     I  can't  go  on "     His  dark  face  was 

suddenly  distorted.  "  No,  I  can't  go  on.  I've  come  to  the  end 
of  that!" 

He  began  to  speak  almost  incoherently,  and  as  If  to  himself, 
to  the  mind  that  understood  what  no  other  mind  could  fully 
understand. 

*'  To  the  end  —  to  the  end !  "  he  repeated,  almost  furiously. 
"From  to-night  all  that's  Impossible.  Why  should  I  —  how 
could  any  man  —  no!  no!" 

His  lips  twisted,  his  brows  came  down  over  his  eyes.  For 
an  Instant  his  face  was  like  a  bitter  mask. 

"  Feel !  "  he  exclaimed. 

He  seized  the  right  hand  of  Dolores  and  held  It  against  his 
heart. 

"  D'you  ask  me  to  deny  that  any  longer?" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  39i 

For  a  moment  her  hand  was  still,  and  felt  the  beating  that 
was  his  life.     Then  it  twisted  in  his  grasp. 

"  No,  no,  he's  coming." 

"What?" 

"  Monsieur  Leroux  1  " 

"No!" 

But  even  as  he  spoke  he  heard  a  faint  footstep  on  the  tiny 
stones  of  the  terrace. 

"  We  must  speak  to  him,"  Dolores  said. 

"No,  no!" 

He  tightened  his  grasp  on  her  hand. 

"  But  he  will  pass  close  to  us." 

"No,  no!" 

"  Cesare!  "  she  said. 

She  bent  and  looked  into  his  face.  At  once  he  let  go  her 
hand. 

"Forgive  me!     But " 

A  sigh,  that  was  almost  a  sob,  came  from  him,  and  he  turned 
his  face  away  from  her.  A  shadow  emerged  slowly  from  the 
darkness.     The  footfall  was  louder. 

"Monsieur  Leroux!"  called  Dolores.  "Are  you  going  to 
bed?" 

There  was  no  answer,  but  the  shadow  drew  slowly  nearer. 

"  If  it  were  not  Leroux!  If  it  were  my  husband !  "  Dolores 
thought.  Her  mind  flashed  back  to  the  party  at  Mrs.  Eld- 
ridge's,  to  the  conversation  about  the  donna  deUnquente,  to  her 

thought,  "  If What  would  Theo  be  like?     What  would 

Theodo?;' 

"Monsieur  Leroux!  Monsieur  Leroux!"  she  called,  more 
sharply  and  insistently. 

"Alio!" 

"  We  are  here,  looking  at  Rome." 

The  sculptor  came  up. 

"  You  are  going  to  bed  ?  " 

"  Yes,  madame." 

"  Do  me  a  favor.  Come  with  us  to  the  gate  of  the  villa, 
just  to  show  the  attendant  we  were  really  dining  with  you,  and 
that  you  are  partly  responsible  if  we  have  kept  him  too  late  out 
of  bed.     Will  you." 

"  But  with  pleasure,  madame." 

She  began  to  walk  quickly  away  from  the  palace. 

"  It  is  so  lovely  here  on  a  summer  night.  We  could  not  resist 
staying  for  a  few  minutes." 


392  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Oh,  what  a  poor,  feeble  h}-pocrite  she  felt  as  she  made  those 
banal  remarks,  unworthy  of  the  garden,  of  tlie  night,  unworthy 
of  hate,  of  love,  of  life!  It  was  as  if  she  concentrated  in  a 
couple  of  sentences  all  the  insincerity  and  the  clap-trap  of  the 
world.  And  after  that  look  which  Cesare  had  sent  to  the  sculp- 
tor! But  her  life,  she  knew,  had  trained  her  in  conventionality, 
and  the  v/ords  had  come  mechanically. 

But  what  must  Cesare  be  thinking  of  her? 

At  the  gate  they  parted  from  Leroux.  The  gate  swung 
slowly  to.  The  servant  was  liberally  tipped  and  wished  "Bonne 
nuitJ  "  They  walked  on  towards  the  Sacre  Cocur.  And  Ce- 
sare never  spoke. 

"  We  shall  £nd  a  fiacre  at  the  top  of  the  steps,  don't  you 
think?" 

She  spoke  almost  with  timidity.     He  did  not  answer. 

"  If  not,  we  had  better  go  down  into  the  Piazza.  There  is 
sure  to  be  one  there." 

Still  he  did  not  reply.  She  walked  on  a  little  faster.  There 
were  no  fiacres  before  the  Sacre  Ccrur.  She  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  then  turned  and  began  to  descend  the  steps.  Cesare 
followed  her.  They  came  into  the  Piazza  di  Spagna.  It  was 
deserted.  Dolores  stood  for  a  moment,  looking  to  right  and 
left. 

"  Then  I  must  walk!  "  she  said,  at  last.  "  It  doesn't  matter. 
It  was  only  that  I " 

She  broke  off,  looking  towards  him.  His  silence  began  to 
beat  upon  her  like  a  v\'eapon.  The  complete  withdrawal  of  the 
man  who  had  poured  forth  his  nature  with  such  almost  reckless 
sincerity  but  a  few  minutes  before  left  her  in  a  strange,  in  an 
almost  alarming,  solitude.  And  she  felt  a  sensation  of  guilt 
that  troubled  her. 

"  We  had  better  go  by  the  Due  Macelli  now,  I  suppose," 
she  said,  with  an  effort  to  rid  herself  of  the  sensation. 

As  he  said  nothing,  she  added: 

"Hadn't  we?     Hadn't  we?" 

"  Whatever  you  please,"  he  almost  muttered. 

'He  did  not  look  at  her.  She  walked  on  with  him  at  her 
side.  And  neither  of  them  spoke  till  they  had  passed  the  Salone 
Margherita,  and  were  in  sight  of  the  white  and  illuminated 
tunnel  that  leads  from  the  Via  Tritone  to  the  Via  Nazionale. 
There,  close  to  the  Select  Hotel,  they  met  a  wandering  fiacre. 

"  Carrozza!  "  Dolores  called. 

The  coachman   drew  up  and   Dolores  got   into  the   fiacre. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  393 

Cesare  stood  beside  it,  still  looking  down.  Then  he  followed 
her. 

"  You  will  allow  me  to  see  you  home,  of  course,"  he  said, 
formally. 

"  But  it  takes  you  out  of  your  way,  and  really  It  isn't  neces- 
sary." 

"  I  couldn't  leave  you,  at  this  hour.  I'm  sure  you  will  under- 
stand that.     Palazzo  Barberini!  "  he  said  to  the  coachman. 

The  fiacre  moved  on,  and  again  there  was  silence  between 
them.  It  lasted  without  a  break  till  the  fiacre  came  to  the  great 
gate  that  divides  the  garden  of  the  Palazzo  Barberini  from  Via 
Quattro  Fontane.     Then  Cesare  called  out,  "  Don't  drive  in  1  " 

The  man  stopped  the  horse  with  a  jerk.  Cesare  touched  his 
arm.     He  turned  and  Cesare  paid  him. 

"  But  why  not  keep  him  ?  "  said  Dolores. 

"  I'll  walk  home.     I  prefer  it." 

"  Well,  then "     She  was  about  to  hold  out  her  hand, 

when  he  said,  still  with  formality: 

"  I'll  accompany  you  to  your  door,  of  course." 

The  gate  was  opened.  They  walked  towards  the  arcade. 
Dolores  was  beginning  to  feel  frightened,  not  so  much  of  Cesare 
as  of  the  vague;  circumstance,  life,  fate,  all  that  surrounds  us 
and  that  we  do  not  understand,  combinations  cast  out  ruthlesslj^ 
by  the  unknown.     Under  the  arcade  Dolores  stopped. 

"  We  can  say  good-night  here." 

"  No,  I  must  take  you  to  your  door." 

"  I  have  my  key." 

She  showed  it. 

*'  I  have  only  to  walk  upstairs  and  go  in.  You  don't  think 
I  shall  be  murdered  between  the  garden  and  my  door?  " 

"  You  must  not  be  alone  till  you  are  safe  In  your  apartment." 

Was  she  so  precious  in  his  sight?  Or  was  there  another 
reason  for  his  persistence  ?     She  hesitated.     But  she  f  it  he 

meant  to  mount  the  long  and  faintly  lit  stone  sta  ■--  with 
her,  she  felt  that  even  If  she  forbade  him  to  come  VvvA  her, 
still  he  would  come.  Nevertheless,  she  said,  wit'  -  t^p  re- 
luctance partly  due  to  his  almost  freezing  formal      . 

"  But  my  husband  may  be  at  home.  I  have  no  reason  to 
think  so,  but  he  might  have  come  in  to  stay  the  night." 

"I  wish  to  God  he  were  in!"  Cesare  said,  with  sudden 
violence.     "  I  should  like  to  have  to  do  with  a  man  to-night!  " 

"  Aren't  you  forgetting  me?  "  she  said,  but  very  gently. 

"  There  is  a  limit  to  things,"  he  replied. 


394  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Good-night." 

"  No." 

"But " 

"  No,  no." 

He  went  toward  the  great  gaping  staircase,  and  she  was 
almost  obh'ged  to  follow  him.  His  steps  rang  on  the  stone, 
as  if  he  were  the  master  resolutely  ascending  to  what  belonged 
to  him.  Were  they  two  going,  she  wondered,  up  to  a  great 
crisis  in  her  life?  Now  she  felt  completely  in  the  grasp  of 
events.  If  her  husband  by  chance  were  within,  she  felt 
that  he  must  see  at  a  glance  all  that  had  happened  between  her- 
self and  Cesare  In  the  garden  at  Villa  Medici.  She  did  not 
argue  that  that  was  Impossible.  She  felt  absolutely  that  so 
it  would  be.     And  then  —  her  mind  stopped  short  there. 

Cesare  waited  and  looked  around.  She  joined  him.  And 
they  went  on  without  a  word  till  they  stood  before  the  door 
of  the  apartment.     Then  he  held  out  his  hand. 

"Your  key!" 

She  gave  him  the  key.  He  thrust  It,  roughly  she  thought, 
Into  the  keyhole,  turned  it,  and  opened  the  door  into  the  empty 
hall,  which  was  dark  till  Cesare  lit  it. 

"Now  —  good-night,"  she  said.     "And  thank  you." 

When  she  said  that,  without  again  holding  out  her  hand, 
Cesare's  face  changed.  All  the  formality,  the  freezing,  unnat- 
ural restraint  dropped  awav  from  him. 

"  Dolores!  "  he  said.     "  Dolores!  " 

She  stood  and  looked  at  him.  In  opening  the  door  he  had 
stepped  inside,  holding  it,  as  if  to  let  her  pass  in.  But  she  was 
still  outside  on  the  stone  of  the  landing. 

"What  is ?"     She  began,  and  stopped. 

"  Let  me  come  In !  " 

"No." 

"  Let  me  come  In,  just  Into  the  drawing-room  where  I  met 
you  the  other  day,  when  you  asked  me  to  come !  " 

"  No,  I  can't.     I  mustn't." 

"  Do  you  understand  ?  Haven't  I  made  you  understand  all 
that  you  mean  to  me  ?  " 

"  Forgive  me !  Forgive  me !  And  —  and  I  will  forgive 
you." 

"  Let  me  come  In,  only  for  a  moment.  Just  let  me  sit  with 
you  for  a  moment,  talk  with  you  for  a  moment.  That's  all. 
That  shall  be  all.  Let  me  do  that.  I  promise  that  shall  be 
all." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  395 

"  I  mustn't.     I  mustn't!  " 

She  whispered  the  words.  She  looked  Into  the  hall.  Then 
listened  for  the  sound  of  an  opening  door,  for  the  sound  of  steps. 
And  still  she  felt  in  the  grasp  of  events,  helpless,  deprived  of  all 
genuine  volition. 

"  Dolores,  you  have  my  promise  —  for  to-night." 

He  moved  a  little  from  the  door,  he  took  her  hand,  but  now 
less  like  a  lover  than  like  a  man  of  honor  giving  his  word, 
clinching  a  compact  to  which  he  would  hold  at  all  costs. 

"  My  promise,  my  promise!  "  he  repeated. 

"  Why  —  why  —  what  could  we  say  ?  What  can  we  have 
to  say?" 

"  My  promise !  " 

"  But  we  don't  know  —  we  can't  know  whether " 

Suddenly,  she  never  knew  how  —  she  was  like  a  leaf  moved 
by  the  wind  —  he  drew  her  within  and  the  door  was  shut. 

They  stood  together  in  the  hall  looking  into  each  others* 
eyes. 

"  He  isn't  here!  "  said  Cesare,  whispering. 

Dolores  did  not  answer  him,  tell  him  to  go  again.  Now 
she  felt  that  anything  she  could  do  would  be  useless,  that  to- 
night a  certain  combination  of  events  was  decreed  in  which  she 
was  to  be  involved,  like  a  body  in  a  mass  of  fiercely  revolving 
machinery. 

"  Let  us  go  to  your  drawing-room!  " 

He  spoke  aloud.  Dolores  passed  him,  and  went  on  till  she 
came  to  the  green  and  red  drawing-room.  As  she  touched 
the  button  of  the  electric  light,  and  the  room  sprang  Into  view, 
the  eyes  of  Lenbach's  old  man  met  hers.  They  seemed  to  be 
saying,  "  I  have  waited.  I  shall  not  have  to  wait  much 
longer!  " 

And  as  she  steadily  returned  the  gaze  of  the  portrait  she 
felt  dazed.  What  seemed  foreknowledge  was  alive  In  her. 
And  yet  something  was  within  her  ready  to  fight  It,  to  deny 
its  identity  even. 

She  sat,  almost  dropped  down,  on  a  sofa  opposite  to  the  pic- 
ture, and  looked  at  the  floor.  She  heard  Cesare  sit  down  close 
to  her. 

"  Your  promise!  "  she  said.     "  Your  promise!  " 

"  I  will  keep  it." 

He  did  not  touch  her,  but  she  felt  as  if  all  that  was  really 
him  was  stretching  out  to  touch  her,  grasp  her,  make  her  his 
own.     And  her  husband?     Was  he  at  FrascatI,  or  within  the 


396  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

palace?  Once  he  had  come  from  Frascati  quite  unexpectedly, 
and  very  late,  and  had  slept  in  the  palace.  He  had  had  a  rea- 
son. She  had  forgotten  what  it  was.  He  might  have  had  a 
reason  to-night.  He  might  at  this  moment  be  either  in  his 
bedroom,  or  be  up  reading  in  his  library.  Or  he  might  have 
fallen  asleep  over  a  book  while  waiting  for  her  as  on  that  night 
when  she  returned  very  late  from  the  bridge  tournament. 
'Without  saying  a  word  to  Cesare  she  got  up,  crossed  the  room, 
and  softly  opened  the  door  into  the  library.  Darkness  con- 
fronted her.  She  waited  for  a  moment,  then  turned  on  the 
light.  The  room  was  empty.  She  turned  off  the  light,  shut 
the  door  gently,  and  softly  went  back  to  the  sofa.  And  all 
this  she  did  with  intention,  and  yet  with  a  vagueness  in  which 
any  real  purpose  lay  surely  drowned  and  inert.     She  sat  down. 

"  He  isn't  here!  "  said  Cesare. 

"  We  don't  know,"  she  answered,  with  a  sort  of  almost  dull 
obstinacy. 

He  was  silent  for  quite  a  long  while.  She  did  not  look  at 
him.  Presently  she  began  to  wonder,  but  always  vaguely,  why 
he  had  been  so  fiercely  determined  to  enter.  Perhaps  he  had 
wished  to  find  her  husband  there,  to  force  on  a  tragedy  re- 
gardless of  her  reputation,  her  future.  She  knew  now  that, 
despite  his  usual  air  of  calm,  even  of  almost  serene  self-posses- 
sion, he  was  capable  of  complete  recklessness  when  driven  by 
yiolent  feeling.     Till  to-night  she  had  not  known  him. 

"  Dolores !  "  he  said  at  last. 

She  looked  up. 

"Why  did  you  come  in?"  she  said.  "What  was  the  use? 
lYou  might  have  ruined  me.  Did  you  wish  to  ruin  me?  What 
did  you  wish  ?     And  my  husband  may  be  here." 

She  paused.     Then  she  added: 

*'  I  believe  he  is  here." 

"  That  is  only  a  fancy." 

"  No.  I  believe  he  is  here.  I  feel  as  if  he  were  in  the 
palace."     She  spoke  without  emotion,  slowly,  almost  calmly. 

"  Why  did  j^ou  come  in  ?  " 

"  I  could  not  leave  3'ou  like  that,  In  the  street." 

"The  street!" 

■"I  felt  I  must  be  with  you,  see  you  —  look  at  5'ou,  look  at 
you  —  a  little  longer,  at  all  costs.  Can't  you  understand? 
'Directly  I'm  away  from  you  —  now  —  darkness  will  come 
down  on  me,  and  nothingness.  Don't  you  understand  ?  And  I 
shall  be  In  darkness,  nothingness,  till  I'm  with  you  again." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  397 

She  gazed  at  him  in  silence,  and,  while  she  gazed,  she  was 
wrapped  in  the  truth  and  concentration  of  his  emotion  as  in  a 
fur  through  which  no  touch  of  the  cold  could  ever  penetrate. 

"  That  was  my  reason !  I  think  that  was  my  only  reason. 
But  if  your  husband  had  met  us  at  the  door  I  believe  I  should 
have  been  glad.  I  can't  help  it.  For  if  he  had  met  us  wouldn't 
it  have  given  me  a  right  over  you?  " 

"How  could  it?" 

"  If  he  had  fought  me  there  I  should  have  beaten  him.  If 
we  had  a  duel  I  know  I  should " 

"Hush!" 

"  And  if  —  neither,  then  I  should  have  taken  you  away." 

"  He  might  have  believed  the  truth." 

"The  truth!" 

She  looked  towards  the  door  by  which  they  had  come  in. 

"  If  he  came  in  now "  she  paused,  almost  as  if  expecting 

the  door  to  be  opened,  "  he  might  believe  it  now.     I "    She 

looked  down  at  the  floor.  Her  face  was  set.  And  again  the 
almost  dull  obstinacy  came  into  her  voice. 

"  I  have  never  been  untrue  to  my  husband." 

"And  you  think ?"  _ 

He  stopped.  An  expression  of  strong  astonishment  came 
Into  his  face. 

"  You  don't  always  understand  how  things  are,"  she  said. 

Ever  since,  in  the  garden  that  night,  he  had  spoke  of  her 
husband's  faithlessness,  as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  course,  known, 
smilingly  understood  by  all  the  world,  she  had  felt  as  if  her 
silence  on  that  subject  had  been  almost  wickedness. 

"What  do  I  not  understand?" 

He  leaned  towards  her. 

"  Tell  me." 

"  You  don't  understand  about  Mrs.  Denzil  and  my  hus- 
band." 

"  And  what  is  it  that  I  have  misunderstood?" 

"  My  husband  goes  to  Frascati  only " 

"Yes?" 

"  Only  for  the  children." 

After  a  pause  he  leaned  back,  and  said: 

"Si?" 

And  at  that  word  for  the  first  time  a  genuine  doubt  of  her 
husband's  faithfulness  entered  into  the  mind  of  Dolores.  That 
his  love  was  rapidly  slipping  from  her,  she  believed.  That, 
unless  the  miracle  happened,  she  would  lose  it  entirely,  she  be- 


398  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

lieved.  Even  that,  released  from  her,  it  would  eventually  go 
to  the  mother  at  Frascati  she  believed.  Again  and  again,  while 
she  had  been  resolutely  winning  success  as  a  mondaine,  while 
she  had  been  striving  to  fill  her  life  and  Theo's  with  various 
interests,  she  had  looked  forward,  with  a  leaden  dread,  to  the 
day  when  she  would  have  lost  Theo  forever.  And  she  had 
seen  him  standing  by  the  fruitful  vine.  But  could  Cesare  be 
right?  Was  it  possible  that  she  had  all  this  time  been  de- 
ceived? Was  it  possible?  No;  even  now  she  rejected  one 
doubt.  Till  Denzil's  death  there  had  been  nothing.  She 
knew  that  as  certainly  as  she  knew  that  she  was  living.  But 
since  his  death?  Her  last  conversation  with  Mrs.  Masslng- 
ham  recurred  to  her.  And  another  thing  recurred  to  her;  the 
way  in  which  Edna  Denzil  and  her  husband  had  gone  together 
across  the  loggia  to  bend  over  little  Thco ;  hovv  they  had  sat 
down  beside  him,  how  they  had  talked  and  laughed  with  him ; 
the  difference  when  she  had  gone  over  to  little  Theo. 

And  then  she  saw  again  a  darkness  with  a  patch  of  white 
against  it,  which  she  had  first  seen  as  she  drove  down  the  hill 
alone  into  the  Campagna. 

Had  she  been  living  in  a  fool's  paradise?  And  did  every 
one  know  it?  Something  within  her  seemed  to  flame  and  turn 
icy  cold.     But  she  said  dully,  obstinately: 

"  My  husband  loves  little  children." 

"  Si?  "  Cesare  said,  again. 

She  looked  at  him.  He  was  leaning  back  against  the  high 
sofa.  There  was  no  sarcasm  in  his  face.  His  black  eyes  were 
fixed  upon  her.  In  them  she  saw  what  seemed  to  her  an  expres- 
sion of  almost  blank  pity,  compassion  with  a  great  naked  won- 
der behind  it. 

And  she  went  down  into  a  great  darkness.  Struggling  out 
of  it  with  a  terrible  effort  she  got  up  slowly. 

"  I  am  so  tired,"  she  said. 

Cesare  got  up.     He  took  both  her  hands. 

"  Let  me  go  now !     You  will  let  me  go  ?  " 

He  pressed  her  hands  in  silence.  There  was  no  wonder 
now  in  his  eyes.     There  was  only  the  something  else. 

"  Never,  never  has  there  been  any  woman  so  much  a  woman 
as  you,"  he  said  at  last.  "  That  is  why  I  love  you  as  I  do. 
That  is  whv  I  am  going." 

"Yes  — yes." 

Her  figure  drooped,  almost  like  a  tired  child's. 

"  That  is  why  I  shall  come  back." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  399 

"Yes." 

He  went  away  so  quietly  that  she  did  not  hear  him  go.  She 
only  knew  that  her  hands  were  no  longer  held.  And  presently 
she  felt  as  if  the  room  had  grown  much  colder. 


CHAPTER  XXXI 

Dolores  stood  where  she  was  for  a  long  time,  but  she  did  not 
know  how  long.  At  last  she  lifted  her  head,  and  looked  to- 
wards the  door  by  which  Cesare  had  gone  out.  She  listened. 
A  profound  silence  reigned  in  the  palace.  She  looked  at  the 
clock.  It  was  after  midnight.  But  she  did  not  go  to  bed. 
She  sat  down  again  on  the  sofa  opposite  to  the  portrait,  and  re- 
mained there,  like  one  waiting.  It  seemed  to  her  as  if  the 
events  of  the  night  were  not  finished  yet.  And  sleep  was  im- 
possible. She  could  not  Imagine  that  she  ever  had  slept,  or 
ever  would  sleep  again.  As  she  sat  still  there  she  seemed  to 
see  a  great  darkness  by  the  aid  of  a  strong  light,  Theo's  lack  of 
love  for  her  by  Cesare's  love  for  her.  To-night  she  knew 
something,  she  knew  what  a  man's  love  can  be.  That  knowl- 
edge was  a  possession  that  could  never  be  taken  from  her  while 
she  lived.  It  made  life  different,  it  quickened  life,  it  gave  her 
a  strange  new  sense  of  value. 

Darkness,  nothingness  —  without  her!  Cesare  had  said  that, 
and  with  a  voice,  an  expression  in  his  eyes,  which  had  made  her 
believe  it. 

Darkness,  nothingness! 

How  far  down  she  had  been  into  darkness.  What  a  terri- 
ble effort  she  had  had  to  make  to  fight  her  way  up  before  she 
was  able  to  say,  "  I  am  tired !  "  Then  that  new  sense  of  value 
was  of  little  use  to  her?  It  ought  to  be  as  a  weapon  in  her 
hand.     But  was  it? 

In  the  deep  silence  which  reigned  in  the  palace  she  heard 
again  and  again  Cesare's  voice.  And  it  said  only  one  word  — 
"Si?"  Incredulity,  amazement,  pity,  perhaps  even  a  faint 
and  creeping  contempt,  all  in  one  little  word,  the  irresistible 
ejaculation  of  a  mind. 

"  But  Theo  does  love  little  children.  He  adores  children. 
He  has  alwavs  longed  to  have  children.  It  is  that.  It  is  only 
that." 

She   formed   the  words  with  her  lips.     But  her  mind  was 


400  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

shaking  like  an  uncertain  hand.  Cesare  had  shown  the  power 
of  his  nature  to  her  that  night.  Was  power  likely  to  be  blind, 
mistaken?  How  frightful  that  one  human  being  never  can  be 
sure  of  knowing  another  human  being!  If  Theo  had  deceived, 
betrayed  her,  how  should  she  know  it  ?  " 

She  got  up  from  the  sofa.  All  this  time  the  thoughts  and 
feelings  that  had  passed  through  her  mind  and  heart  had  shifted 
over  one  immovable  base,  the  belief  that  either  Theo  had  been 
to  the  palace  v/hlle  she  had  been  away,  that  he  was  in  it  now, 
or,  if  not,  that  he  would  come  to  ft  that  night,  late  though  the 
hour  was. 

Now  she  meant  to  find  out  at  any  rate  whether  he  was  within 
the  palace.  She  went,  with  precaution,  through  the  suite  of 
reception-rooms.  All  were  deserted.  Then  she  stood  before  the 
door  of  the  bedroom  which  her  husband  now  occupied  when  he 
slept  in  the  palace.  The  empty  bedrooms  in  the  apartment 
were  usually  kept  locked.  Dolores  tried  the  handle  of  the 
<ioor.  It  turned,  and  the  door  yielded  to  her  pressure.  Im- 
mediately she  was  aware  of  this  fact  she  dropped  her  hand. 
The  door  was  now  a  very  little  way  open.  She  looked  at  the 
aperture,  and  saw  that  within  the  room  there  was  a  dim  light. 
She  stood  still,  staring  at  this  faint  section  of  light,  which 
showed  her  the  outline  of  a  picture  frame  on  the  wall  just 
beyond  the  door,  and  thinking  that  Cesare  had  only  just  gone 
away. 

Theo  was  in  the  room.  She  felt  sure  of  that.  But  what 
was  he  doing?  And  Vk^-hat  had  he  been  doing  during  the  last 
half  hour?  Apparently  he  had  not  heard  the  handle  of  the 
door  tried  and  the  door  opened.  For  no  sound  came  from 
wnthin.  She  pushed  the  door  again,  stepped  just  inside  the 
room,  and  again  listened.  And  this  time  she  heard  a  sound, 
soft,  regular,  very  tranquil,  sound  of  a  human  being  calmly 
breathing  in  profound  sleep. 

Had  any  one  been  watching  her  at  this  moment  he  would 
have  seen  an  ugly  expression  of  acute  irony  deform  her  face 
and  die  away  from  it. 

"  U amour  veillel"  she  thought. 

And  the  whole  palace  seemed  full  of  sleep,  lethargy,  pro- 
found indifference. 

Agonize,  tear  yourself  to  pieces,  fly  into  sin  if  you  like,  go 
down  Into  the  nameless  places  where  the  nameless  deeds  are 
done!     But  let  me  sleep! 

She  shrank  back  —  to  laugh.     Then  she  went  into  the  room. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  401 

Just  beyond  the  door,  and  below  the  picture  which  she  had 
seen  by  the  faint  light,  there  was  a  straight  chair  set  against 
the  wall.  She  sat  down  softly  upon  it  and  looked  across  the 
big  room.  The  bed  was  opposite  to  her.  Its  head  was  against 
the  wall  in  a  line  with  the  door.  Beside  it  stood  a  little  old 
table,  with  sturdy,  twisted  legs,  which  she  had  picked  up  in  an 
antiquity  shop  close  to  St.  Peter's.  The  light  in  the  room  came 
from  a  shaded  candle  which  stood  on  the  table.  By  It  lay  an 
open  book.  Another  book  lay  on  the  coverlet  of  the  bed. 
Gogol,  no  doubt,  with  the  translation,  at  hand !  Before  Theo 
had  fallen  asleep  he  had  been  studiously  going  on  with  his 
Russian. 

She  longed  to  utter  a  loud  cry,  to  utter  a  shriek.  Her  lips 
never  moved.     She  sat  quite  still  and  looked  at  the  bed. 

She  saw  her  husband.  He  was  lying  on  his  left  side  with 
his  face  turned  towards  her,  but  in  such  a  position  that  she 
saw  only  his  head  and  forehead  clearly.  In  sleeping,  perhaps, 
he  had  tucked  in  his  chin,  and  shrunk  down  towards  the  bottom 
of  the  bed,  which  was  a  very  long  one  made  specially  for  him. 
As  Dolores  looked  at  his  thick  disordered  hair  she  thought  of 
Vi's  little  hands  carefully,  possessively  at  work  upon  it. 

Now  his  conscious  mind  was  dead.  She  wondered  where 
his  sub-conscious  mind  was,  what  It  was  doing.  Perhaps  it  had 
gone  to  Frascati  to  convey  some  message  to  Edna  Denzil. 

If  only  she  could  know ! 

How  happy  Edna  had  looked  the  other  day  —  had  not  she? 
iWhen  she  had  glanced  up  from  little  Theo's  chair  her  lips  were 
smiling!  The  corners  of  her  mouth  had  turned  up.  Even  her 
mother  had  said  that  she  was  getting  over  the  death  of  her  hus- 
band. She  would  not  have  got  over  such  a  tragedy  unless  Theo 
had  been  at  hand  to  assist  her.  Always  it  is  the  man  who 
assists  the  woman,  the  man  who  teaches  the  woman  to  forget. 
Never  is  It  the  woman  who  assists,  who  teaches  the  woman. 

Never  —  never! 

Dolores  heard  her  teeth  grinding  one  row  upon  the  other. 

Her  gaze  made  no  Impression  upon  the  sleeping  man,  al- 
though she  was  deliberately  trying  to  wake  him.  If  she  did 
wake  him  what  was  she  going  to  say  to  him?  What  was  she 
going  to  do?  She  did  not  know,  and  now  she  began  to  won- 
der. What  still  astonished  her  was  that  it  had  been  possible 
for  Theo  to  return  at  night,  to  find  her  out,  and  to  go  quietly 
to  bed  and  to  sleep.  For  surely  he  must  have  called  Carlino 
and  asked  him  where  she  was.     And  Carlino  must  have  said 


402  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

' — but  then  she  suddenly  remembered  that  she  had  left  the 
palace  alone.  Carlino  must  have  said  that,  then.  And  Thea 
would  surely  be  astonished,  uneasy  at  her  being  out  alone  in 
the  night. 

But  no!  The  quiet  music  went  on.  And  she  listened, 
hating  it. 

'Had  Theo  been  asleep  when  she  had  seemed  to  see  his  figure 
close  to  her  In  the  garden  of  Villa  Medici?  That  wraith 
■ — existing  only  In  her  imagination,  of  course  —  had  looked 
strangely  Indifferent. 

Her  husband  stirred  in  the  bed,  muttered  something  Inco- 
herent, threw  out  one  arm  and  tucked  In  his  chin  still  more. 
She  thought  perliaps  he  was  going  to  wake  up,  and  a  faint 
feeling  of  fear  stole  through  her. 

Yet  all  this  time  she  had  been  "  willing "  him  to  wake  up. 
His  brown  hand  hung  down  over  the  edge  of  the  bed  with  out- 
spread fingers,  looking  grotesque.  If  it  belonged  to  a  dead 
man  could  it  look  like  that  ? 

If  Theo  were  dead,  instead  of  asleep,  and  she  were  a  free 
woman  like  Edna  DenziU  What  would  she  feel?  tWhat 
would  she  do? 

He  moved  again.  Suddenly  it  occurred  to  Dolores  that  she 
still  had  on  her  hat.  She  got  up  softly,  and  stole  out  of  the 
room,  went  to  her  own  room,  quickly  undressed,  put  on  a 
white  wrapper,  and  returned  to  Theo's  room.  As  she  came 
beyond  the  edge  of  the  open  door  she  saw  his  eyes  fixed  on 
her.  They  were  widely  opened.  When  she  saw  them  she 
stopped  short.  And  she  felt  as  If  her  heart  had  stopped  too. 
She  stood  quite  still,  and  her  husband  continued  to  stare  at 
her  with  his  face  sideways  on  the  pillow.  There  was  no  pene- 
tration in  his  look  at  first,  but  gradually  consciousness  dawned 
in  his  eyes,  and  with  it  surprise. 

He  lifted  his  head. 

"What  is  it?"  he  said. 

He  sat  up  on  the  bed. 

"Doloretta!" 

"Theo!" 

"  What  Is  the  matter?  " 

"  Nothing." 

**  But  what  are  you  doing  here  then  ?     What  time  is  it  ?  " 

He  felt  for  his  watch.  While  he  was  doing  this  a  clock  In 
the  hall  struck  one, 

**  One  o'clock!  "  he  said.     "  What  made  you  get  up?  " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  403 

"Get  up!" 

"  Yes,  get  up  out  of  bed?  " 

"Well,  I  —  I'm  not  at  all  sleepy.  And  I  thought  —  It 
seemed  to  me,  I  don't  know  why,  that  you  were  in  the  palace." 

"  Perhaps,  without  being  aware  of  it,  you  heard  me  when  I 
came  to  your  room." 

She  drew  a  chair  to  her  and  sat  down,  but  not  very  near 
to  him. 

"  Did  you  come  to  my  room?  " 

**  Yes,  as  soon  as  I  arrived." 

"  What  time  was  that?  " 

"  Not  late.  But  I  suppose  the  servants  had  gone  to  bed. 
I  let  myself  in.  It  was  between  ten  and  eleven.  I  expected 
to  find  you  still  up." 

"And  you  came  to  my  room?" 

"  Yes.  But  I  walked  softly.  I  only  just  opened  the  door 
and  when  I  found  you  were  there  I  went  off  to  bed.  What 
is  it?" 

"  Nothing.     Why  do  you  ask?  " 

"Are  you  —  there's  nothing  the  matter?" 

"  Of  course  not.  Did  you  bring  a  light  with  you  when 
you  came  to  my  room?  " 

"  Oh  no.  I  only  opened  the  door  and  listened.  When  I 
heard  you  were  asleep  I  came  away  at  once.  But  even  that 
may  have  disturbed  you." 

"  You  heard  —  did  I  seem  to  be  sleeping  soundly?  " 

"  I  don't  know.  I  came  away  immediately  for  fear  of 
startling  5'ou.     You  must  have  gone  very  early  to  bed." 

"  But  why  did  you  come  in  to  Rome  and  at  night?  I  didn't 
ex you  never  said  vou  were  coming." 

"I  didn't  know  it."' 

He  leaned  one  arm  on  the  pillow  and  shifted  his  position 
slightly. 

"  It's  rather  a  nuisance,"  he  said,  speaking  in  a  casual  sort 
of  way,  "  but  I've  got  to  run  over  to  England." 

"To  England!" 

"  Yes.     I  shall  get  away  to-morrow." 

"You're  going  to  England  to-morrow!" 

"  I  just  said  so."  He  still  kept  up  the  casual  tone.  "  The 
fact  is  —  but  talking  so  much  at  night  will  drive  sleep  right 
out  of  us." 

"  Never  mind  if  it  does.  What  does  it  matter?  Why  must 
you  go; 


,?" 


404  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"Well,  you  know  about  those  —  but  no,  of  course  you 
don't.  It's  not  very  interesting.  But  Edna  has  two  houses 
in  London  which  Francis  left  to  her.  A  good  part  of  her 
income  comes  from  them.  They're  large  houses,  one  in  West- 
bourne  Terrace  and  the  other  in  Lancaster  Gate.  But  I'm 
sure " 


"No,  do  tell  me!"  ^ 

"  Well,  the  tenant  in  Lancaster  Gate  has  Just  gone  smash 
and  bolted.  Edna's  solicitor  has  telegraphed,  and  I'm  going 
over  at  once  to  see  what's  to  be  done  to  get  things  straight. 
The  fellow  had  the  house  on  a  twenty  years'  lease  and  has  only- 
been  in  seven  months." 

"Only  seven!" 

"  There!  now  you  know  almost  as  much  as  I  do." 

"  But  why  must  you  go  to  England?" 

"But  I've  just  said  why!  I  must  look  into  the  matter, 
and  see  Edna's  solicitor.  It's  a  serious  thing  for  her  if  she 
loses  her  rent  even  for  a  short  time.  And  between  ourselves, 
I'm  not  very  satisfied  with  the  way  her  solicitor  has  managed 
certain  affairs  for  her.  But  I  can't  go  into  all  that  at  this 
hour  of  night.  I'm  very  thankful  Theo's  so  much  better. 
Otherwise,  I  don't  think  I  could  have  gone." 

"  You  said  you  wouldn't  go  to  England  this  summer.  Don't 
you  remember?  " 

"  Of  course  I  didn't  intend  to  go  again." 

"I  said — 'when  are  we  going?' — and  you " 

"  This  is  duty  not  pleasure.  Even  at  this  time  of  night  I'm 
sure,  if  you  think,  you  can  see  the  difference." 

A  faint  smile  flickered  over  her  face  and  died  away. 

"  I'm  tired  of  thinking,"  she  murmured. 

And  she  looked  down. 

"  Then  much  better  go  to  bed." 

"  Yes.     Good-night,  Theo." 

She  got  up  and  left  the  room  without  looking  at  him  again. 

And  she  shut  the  door  firmly  behind  her. 

On  the  following  day  Sir  Theodore  started  for  England. 


CHAPTER  XXXII 

Two  days  after  Sir  Theodore's  departure  for  England  a  cer- 
tain innkeeper  in  Olevano  Romano,  between  thirty  and  forty 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  405 

miles  distant  from  Rome,  was  in  excellent  spirits.  That  sum- 
mer, for  some  mysterious  reason  which  the  good  man  could 
not  discover,  but  which  he  was  quite  sure  had  nothing  to  do 
with  any  fault  of  his,  his  season  had  been  a  poor  one.  The  ar- 
tists who  in  the  summer  months  of  the  year  often  make  Olevano 
their  home,  had  not  arrived  at  Casa  Truschi.  It  was  really 
as  if  they  had  boycotted  the  little  house  with  its  white  walls 
and  its  green  shutters,  its  long  pergolas,  its  arbors,  its  earthen 
terrace  set  with  roses  and  geraniums.  Yet  there  had  been  no 
change  in  the  management  of  the  inn.  Erminia  still  made 
those  omelettes,  not  unlike  small  squares  of  blanket,  which  so 
many  poor  painters  had  eaten  with  relish.  The  veal  that  had 
followed  them  for  a  year  and  a  day,  and  much  longer,  Erminia 
was  quite  ready  to  send  after  them  still,  with  its  companion  po- 
tatoes cut  into  large  lozenges,  and  fried  in  oil  of  the  olive. 
The  thin  red  wine  was  there  "Fino  del  Paese/"  as  Erminia  al- 
ways called  it,  when  any  indiscreet  inquirer  demanded  its  name, 
and  the  heavy,  dark-colored  bread.  The  uneven  brick  floors 
were  dusted.  The  beds  were  duly  made,  and  lay  proudly  on 
the  wire  mattresses.  Bees  hummed  lazily  in  the  arbors,  among 
ivj^  roses  and  canes.  Below  the  garden,  on  the  long  slopes 
of  the  sun-kissed  hills,  the  olives  displayed  their  subtle  beauty, 
delicate,  almost  shrinking,  of  silver  green  and  green  silver.  The 
songs  of  the  sun-browned  peasants  came  up  from  the  trees,  with 
the  cries  and  the  laughter  of  children,  and  the  tocsin  of  bells 
from  the  little  town  clustered  about  the  mass  of  gray  rock, 
with  its  dark  green  clothing  of  shrubs  and  herbage,  and  its 
ruined  tower. 

Olevano  had  not  changed.  Still,  near  the  road  to  Subiaco, 
the  oaks  of  the  Serpentara  rustled  their  leaves  as  if  in  a  chorus 
of  thankfulness  to  the  romantic  artists  who  saved  them.  And 
the  Sabine  mountains  held  towards  evening,  as  of  old,  strange 
messages  of  light  from  the  declining  sun,  messages  precious  and 
beautiful  sent  surely  to  those  mountains  alone,  as  friends  sends 
heart-words  to  friend.  Valmontone,  home  of  the  castle,  San 
Vito,  Rocca  di  Cave,  sent  up  their  smoke  to  catch  the  last  rays, 
that  even  it  might  be  turned  to  pathos  and  glory,  to  something 
that  stirred  the  imagination  of  those  who  beheld  it  streaming 
forth  into  the  limpid  magic  that  the  twilight  was  creeping  near 
to  embrace. 

And  Casa  Truschi  had  not  changed.  But,  as  Benedetto 
Truschi  had  said  many  times  that  summer,  '*  times  had  changed." 
He  had  groaned  indeed  so  often  over  tempi  passati  that  his 


4o6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

cronies  in  the  town  to  which  he  often  descended  from  his  remote 
eyrie  high  "  above  everything,"  as  he  was  fond  of  declaring, 
were  quite  astonished  now  that  he  smiled  and  looked  gay. 
They  asked  him  the  reason  for  his  altered  mood.  .  Were  the 
painters  coming  at  last?  or  had  the  breeze  traveling  over  the 
heads  of  the  olives  from  the  Alban  mountains  or  the  sea,  whis- 
pered of  English  spinsters,  with  small  means  but  strict  notions 
of  honesty  and  weekly  settlements,  packing  at  Ostia,  Nettuno, 
or  Rocca  di  Papa,  preparatory  to  a  raid  on  Olevano? 

Benedetto  shook  his  large  and  round  head,  pulled  first  one 
and  then  the  other  of  his  big  brown  ears,  and  uttered  a  loud, 
macche!  That  did  not  tell  the  gossips  much,  but  it  was 
all  the  innkeeper  chose  to  tell  them.  He  was  living  alone  in 
the  inn  with  his  daughter,  the  before-mentioned  Erminia. 
Erminia  did  not  come  down  into  the  town  just  then.  So  she 
was  not  questioned.  But  the  sudden  good  temper  of  Benedetto 
was  shrewdly  associated  by  more  than  one  gossip  with  a  gray 
torpedo-shaped  motor  which  had  flashed  through  the  town  the 
day  before,  driven  by  a  man  who  looked  made  of  cap  and  gog- 
gles, and  which,  after  a  very  short  stay  in  the  neighborhood  — 
just  where  was  not  generally  known  —  had  flashed  back  in  a 
cloud  of  white  dust  down  the  road  to  Rome. 

Those  who  knew  Benedetto  best  felt  sure  that  his  gaiety 
was  connected  with  his  pocket,  and  they  surmised  that  the  dar- 
ing motor-man,  who  had  driven  so  fast  but  so  skilfully,  and  who 
had  looked  like  a  representative  figure  of  modern  progress  and 
audacity,  was  connected  very  possibly  with  both. 

They  were  right. 

The  man  who  had  driven  the  torpedo-shaped  motor  from 
Rome  to  Olevano  Romano  was  Cesare  Carelli,  and  he  had 
written  to  Benedetto,  an  old  acquaintance  of  his,  to  meet  him  at 
a  certain  place  in  the  road  beyond  the  village.  It  was  not  possi- 
ble for  a  motor  to  gain  the  terrace  in  front  of  Casa  Truschi, 
which  was  approached  only  by  a  long  footway  roofed  by  a  per- 
gola. So  Benedetto  had  descended  to  hold  a  colloquy,  but  not 
to  the  garden  gate. 

"  It  was  Don  Cesare  Carelli,"  he  told  his  widowed  daugh- 
ter when  he  came  back  to  the  lonely  house  on  the  height. 
"  Who  used  often  to  stay  with  me  when  he  was  a  lad  and  I 
was  at  Terracina.  It  was  duck-shooting  he  came  for  then  in 
the  Pontine  Marshes." 

"  He  doesn't  come  here  for  duck-shooting,  does  he,  papa?" 
observed  Erminia,  fixing  a  pair  of  eyes,  which  looked  as  if  they 


THE  FRUITFUL  VIXE  407 

had  recently  been  carefully  oiled,  on  her  father.  "  And  in 
summer,  too!  " 

"  No.  He's  come  here  for  something  different.  And  there's 
no  cause  for  us  to  make  a  great  talk  about  it.  Just  you  come  in 
here!" 

At  the  moment  the  little  inn  was  quite  empt}'.  Benedetto 
had  been  speaking  to  his  daughter  on  the  terrace  which  over- 
looked an  immense  view,  and  the  town.  Now  he  led  the  way 
heavily  and  rather  mysteriously  up  the  outside  staircase  of 
stone  to  a  balcony  under  a  pergola.  The  one  sitting-room  of 
the  inn  opened  on  to  this  balcony  by  French  windows.  When 
his  daughter  had  joined  him  there  he  stood  still  for  a  moment. 
Then  he  said: 

"  In  here !  "  and  entered  the  sitting-room. 

This  fastness  had  a  tiled  floor  of  very  faded  pink  bricks, 
large  and  uneven.  The  ceiling  of  wood  was  colored  with  a 
sickly  pinkish  hue  and  was  not  high.  On  the  walls  was  a 
venerable  paper  displaying  a  pattern  of  magenta  on  a  pale  gold 
ground.  Against  it  were  nailed  many  pictures.  Here  was  to 
be  seen  the  Holy  Father,  Pius  the  Tenth,  with  white  hair  and 
a  grave,  almost  sad,  expression,  clad  in  a  red  cloak  over  white, 
and  adorned  with  a  gold  chain  from  which  depended  a  pearl 
cross.  Round  about  him  were  pictures  of  women  in  ruffs  with 
dark  hair  and  pointed  noses.  And  almost  immediately  oppo- 
site to  him  was  a  portrait  of  a  cardinal  with  a  red  cloak  and 
a  cross,  beneath  which  was  written  in  heavy  black  letters: 
*'  Scipio  Cardinalis  Burghesius  in  hac  Domo  moratus  est  Anno 
1779."  Near  him  was  fixed  a  large  mandolin.  A  mirror  with 
a  red  rose  painted  on  its  surface  reflected  part  of  the  room. 
Beneath  it  on  a  ledge  covered  with  yellow-green  plush,  was  a 
plaster  group  of  beggars  in  attitudes  of  penury  and  despair.  A 
red  sofa  invited  repose.  There  were  two  pink  armchairs,  with 
white  antimacassars  on  backs  and  arms,  several  chairs  up- 
holstered in  green  and  in  yellow  rep ;  and  near  to  the  Holy 
Father  there  was  a  handsome  cardinal's  chair  covered  with  red 
damask,  much  worn  and  faded,  but  still  dignified  with  its  high 
back,  wooden  arms,  and  carved  knobs  heavily  gilded.  A  good 
sized  table  covered  with  a  clean  white  cloth  stood  exactly  in 
the  middle  of  the  floor. 

The  most  characteristic  features  of  this  room  were,  how- 
ever, supplied  by  the  doors.  Evidently  the  painters,  who  had 
in  prosperous  times  frequented  the  inn,  had  been  moved  by 
emotions  of  gratitude,  or  perhaps  by  fantasy,  to  embellish  these 


408  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

with  the  ripe  fruits  of  their  genius.  One,  no  doubt  religiously 
inclined,  had  painted  on  the  door  near  "  Scipio  Cardinalis 
Burghesius  "  a  long  procession  of  young  girls  in  white,  wreathed 
with  unknown  tlowers,  winding  up  with  submission  to  a  bishop 
who  extended  large  hands  in  blessing.  The  touching  effect  of 
this  culmination  was  not  increased  by  the  anti-clerical  demon- 
stration of  a  painter  of  a  different  way  of  thinking,  who  had 
filled  part  of  the  benign  sky  above  the  procession  with  a  number 
of  fiercely-tinted  boys,  whose  almost  devilish  faces  and  prancing 
puppet-like  limbs,  suggested  acute  derision  expressed  with  an 
ardent  impiety.  On  another  door,  at  the  back  of  the  room, 
out  of  the  Pope's  range  of  vision,  a  post-impressionist  had 
yielded  to  his  sense  of  reality  and  truth.  Here  a  masher, 
realistically  thin,  and  indeed  almost  concave  in  the  region  of 
the  lower  waistcoat  buttons,  sunk  prostrate  in  a  cane  arm- 
chair of  vivid  scarlet,  his  top  hat  tilted  to  the  front  of  a  melon- 
shaped  bald  head,  dreamed  over  his  high  white  collar  on  a 
green  lawn  starred  with  immense  white  blobs.  In  his  bone- 
less left  hand  he  sustained,  as  by  some  miracle  of  the  will  with 
which  the  physical  body  had  no  connection,  a  large  cigarette. 
And  he  extended  towards  the  universe  a  pair  of  enormous  feet 
encased  in  gold  colored  boots.  Near  him  a  balloon-shaped 
mauve  woman,  with  a  tiny  head,  fell  forward  to  smell  a 
standard  somiCthing  erupting  in  a  disease  of  pink  spots.  In  the 
distance  two  trees,  like  two  goUywogs,  in  yellow  pots,  the  same 
color  as  the  boots  of  the  masher,  declined  to  cast  any  shade. 

Standing  with  one  hand  on  the  table  in  the  center  of  this 
room,  and  pulling  at  his  ear,  Benedetto  said  to  his  daughter: 

"  There's  some  one  coming  here  to-morrow." 

"  Is  there?     How  many? " 

I'  It's  a  lady.'; 

"  How  long  is  she  going  to  stay?  " 

"  Chi  lo  sa?  It  seems  she's  been  ill,  or  upset,  or  something, 
and  she  wants  to  be  quite  quiet." 

"  Well,  it's  quiet  here." 

"  Si,  si !  That's  why  she  comes.  She  wants  the  whole 
mn. 

"  There's  nothing  against  her  Having  It,  is  there  ?  " 

"  Nothing  at  all.  We  must  do  the  best  for  her,  make  her 
very  comfortable.     She's  accustomed  to  be  very  comfortable.'* 

"  Most  ladies  are." 

"  Si,  si !  But  this  one's  a  very  special  lady,  and  wants  special 
comfort." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  409 

"  There's  always  the  veal  and " 

"No,  it's  the  rooms." 

"  She's  bringing  some  one  with  her,  I  s'pose?  " 

"  Some  one  with  her?  " 

"  Won't  she  have  a  servant  ?  " 

"Macchi!" 

The  oiled  eyes  of  Erminia  regarded  her  papa  with  robust 
curiosity. 

"  What  should  any  one  want  with  a  servant  out  here?  She'll 
come  just  as  she  is,  and  you  must  do  your  best  to  make  her 
comfortable,  without  talking  about  it.  Here's  a  chance  for 
us  to  finish  up  as  if  v^td  had  artists  all  the  summer." 

"  I'll  make  her  comfortable.     Where  does  she  come  from?  " 

"  Naples.     I  fancy  she's  an  American,  come  by  sea." 

"What  time  is  she  coming?" 

"  Any  time  to-morrow  afternoon.  Have  the  bedrooms 
ready." 

Before  Erminia  could  make  any  further  remark  her  father 
w^ent  out  of  the  room  with  decision. 

On  the  following  afternoon  about  two  o'clock,  when  a  haze 
of  heat  hung  about  the  flanks  of  the  mountains,  and  every 
peasant  and  townsman  who  respected  himself  was  lost  in  the 
siesta,  Benedetto,  looking  down  from  the  terrace  of  Casa 
Truschi,  saw  a  gray  motor  car  skim  over  the  bit  of  white  road 
that  Vv^as  visible  below  near  the  Albergo  Roma,  and  vanish 
among  the  trees  on  the  hill  that  led  upward  to  the  town. 

"  Erminia,"  he  called,  turning. 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  cried  a  harsh  voice  from  the  depths  of  the 
house. 

"Come  here!" 

In  a  moment  his  daughter  appeared  under  the  pergola  at 
the  top  of  the  steps. 

"  The  principino  v.'ill  be  here  in  a  moment.  I've  just  seen 
the  motor  car  pass  below." 

"The  principino!     He's  not  going  to  sleep  here,  is  he?" 

"  Not  that  I  know  of.       But " 

"  Is  the  lady  with  him  ?  " 

"  Chi  lo  saf  But  anj'how  he's  sure  to  come  in  and  loolc  at 
the  rooms.     I'll  go  to  the  gate  now  to  meet  him." 

And  Benedetto  hurried  off  along  the  path,  and  disappeared 
under  the  tunnel  of  vines  and  creeping  plants  that  extended 
down  the  slope  to  the  road.  Within  a  few  minutes  he  returned, 
walking  respectfully,  but  talking  quite  familiarly,  with  Cesare 


'4IO  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Carelli,  who  wore  a  pale  yellow  linen  motor  coat  and  a  cap 
protected  with  a  linen  covering,  and  who  was  white  as  a  miller 
with  dust. 

Cesare  did  not  pause  even  for  a  moment  to  look  at  the  mar- 
velous view.  He  cast  a  swift  glance  around  him  over  the 
terrace  and  the  small  garden  below  it,  went  into  the  ivy-cov- 
ered arbor  near  the  steps,  saw  that  it  was  empty,  came  out, 
and  at  once  mounted  to  the  sitting-room,  followed  closely  by 
Benedetto. 

There  were  pink  roses  on  the  table  in  the  middle  of  the  room. 
The  floor  had  been  thoroughly  swept  that  morning,  clean  anti- 
macassars sewn  on  the  red  armchairs,  the  pictures  dusted. 
Cesare  stood  still  for  a  moment  with  one  muscular  hand  rest- 
ing on  the  table.  The  silence  of  summer  in  this  eyrie  of  the 
hills  was  beautiful.  It  was  broken  only  by  the  humming  of  the 
bees,  by  the  very  faint  rustle  of  leaves  in  the  pergola  over  the 
balcony,  as  a  momentary  breath  of  wind  touched  them,  by  the 
sound  of  a  church  bell  below  rising  out  of  the  valley.  The  bell 
ceased  almost  at  once.  The  little  wind  died  away.  Only  the 
bees  hummed  on,  traveling  slowly  from  flower  to  flower. 

Cesare  sighed,  and  took  his  hand  from  the  table. 

"  The  bedroom  is  ready?  "  he  asked. 

"  Eccellenza,  si !     I  will  call  my  daughter." 

"No,  no,  don't!     [Where  is  It?" 

The  inn  had  only  the  floor  on  which  they  were,  with  cel- 
lars and  ofKces  below.  Benedetto  opened  a  door  to  the  left 
near  the  French  windows  and  showed  Cesare  into  a  single  bed- 
room, which  communicated  with  another  slightly  larger  room 
containing  two  beds.  In  each  of  these  rooms  vases  of  closely 
packed  small  pink  roses  had  been  placed.  The  floors  were  of 
brick  uncarpeted.  Beside  each  bed  lay  a  small  yellow  and 
red  rug.  Three  or  four  straw  chairs  were  carefully  set  back 
against  the  walls.  There  v/as  no  attempt  at  comfort.  But 
cleanliness  reigned,  and  the  beds  looked  as  if  they  were  good 
ones. 

The  second  bedroom  opened  by  a  French  window  on  to  a 
narrow  balcony,  which  ran  along  one  end  of  the  house  at  right 
angles  to  the  w^indows  which  looked  out  upon  the  terrace,  and 
commanded  a  splendid  view  of  the  rugged  Sabine  mountains, 
and  of  the  near  hillsides,  covered  with  olive  trees,  and  inter- 
sected by  winding  paths.  Far  below  the  white  road  could  be 
seen,  the  road  leading  from,  leading  to,  Rome.  Immediately 
beneath  this  balcony  a  garden  path  sloped  gently  down,  then 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  4" 

turned  abruptly  and  ran  back  below  a  stone  wall  to  the  sunken 
garden  beyond  the  terrace.  A  thickly  overgrown  pergola  cov- 
ered, and  entirely  concealed  the  second  section  of  the  path,  so 
that  any  one  standing  upon  the  balcony  saw  only  a  roof  of  canes, 
ivy  and  climbing  roses,  and  people  descending  from  the  terrace, 
on  their  way  to  the  sunken  garden,  disappeared  from  view  di- 
rectly they  turned  the  acute  angle  of  the  path. 

Cesare  came  out  on  this  balcony,  and  stood  there  for  several 
minutes  with  his  motor  cap  pulled  down  over  his  eyes.  He 
looked  first  at  the  roof  of  the  long  pergola.  Beneath  it  was 
a  narrow  stone  bench  which  he  knew  of.  There  one  could  sit 
in  shadow,  hidden,  looking  out  over  Nature's  heart-gladden- 
ing wildness.  There  one  could  listen  to  the  loud  songs  of 
the  sun-browned  peasants,  see  their  robust  figures  passing  below 
on  those  winding  paths  of  the  rich,  warm  earth.  His  eyes 
traveled  away.  The  road  to  Rome  was  marked  out  by  some 
black-green  cypresses.  They  held  his  eyes.  But  suddenly  they 
were  obscured  by  a  dense  cloud  of  white  dust  which  arose  from 
the  road,  which  moved  rapidly  on,  which  slowly  dispersed  in 
the  golden  air.  His  eyes  shone.  He  turned  round  and  saw 
Erminia  looking  at  him  over  her  father's  fat  shoulders. 

"  Buon  giorno!"  he  said,  quickly. 

"  Eccellenza,  buon  giorno!^* 

"  The  lady  will  be  here  in  a  moment.  Her  motor  has  just 
gone  by.  Get  her  a  good  cup  of  tea.  You  know  how  to  make 
good  tea?" 

*'  Eccellenza  si !     AH  the  signorl  and  the  signore  who " 

*'  That's  it !  Make  it  very  good,  with  lemon  and  biscuits. 
And  do  everything  you  can  for  the  signora.  She  wants  to  be 
X^ery  quiet.  Let  her  alone.  Don't  bother  her.  But  make  her 
comfortable.     She  isn't  bringing  a  maid." 

He  held  out  his  hand.  As  he  disappeared  Erminia  stood  re- 
garding a  fifty  lire  note  with  a  broad  smile  of  rapture. 

"Is  the  principe  staying  here  too,  papa?"  she  asked,  swing- 
ing round  to  her  father. 

"  No,  of  course  not.  He  has  only  come  to  see  that  the  lady 
IS  comfortable." 

"  And  is  he  going  back  to  Rome  to-day?  " 

"What  does  it  matter  to  you?" 

After  a  minute,  he  added,  in  a  surly  voice: 

**  Don  Cesare  has  put  up  at  the  Roma." 

iWith  a  shrug  of  his  shoulders  he  left  the  room. 

Almost  at  the  same  moment  a  taxi-cab  stopped  at  the  gate 


412  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

of  the  garden,  and  a  tall  woman  swathed  in  a  voluminous  white 
veil,  got  slowly  out.  As  she  did  so  Cesare  opened  the  gate. 
She  passed  in  quickly  under  the  pergola  and  v/alked  straight  on, 
followed  in  a  moment  by  Cesare  holding  a  dressing-case,  and 
by  the  chauffeur  who  carried  a  bag  with  an  unusual  amiability 
that  had  been  produced  in  the  usual  way.  The  woman,  who 
was  Dolores,  did  not  enter  the  inn.  She  walked  to  the  ter- 
race, and  while  the  two  men  carried  in  bag  and  dressing-case 
she  stood  with  her  back  turned  to  the  house  looking  out  over 
the  view  towards  Rome.  She  had  slowly  unfastened  and  un- 
wound her  veil.  Quite  still  she  stood  till  she  heard  on  the 
stone  steps  descending  feet,  and  Cesare's  voice  saying:  "  That's 
enough!  You  can  go  now!"  Then  she  turned  sharply,  and 
opened  her  lips.  The  chauffeur  took  off  his  cap  in  parting  salu- 
tation. 

"  Wait  a  moment!  "  she  said. 

"Signora?" 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  asked  Cesare.  "  Can  he  do  anything  more 
for  vou?  " 

"No,  no." 

She  turned  quickly  away.  She  had  not  meant  the  man  to 
see  her  face,  into  which  now  a  slow  and  faint  Hush  of  red  was 
creeping. 

She  heard  him  going  away  down  the  path. 

"  You've  got  his  address  ? "  she  said.  *'  Where  is  he 
going?" 

"  Back  to  Rome.  Yes,  I've  got  his  address.  A  telegram 
will  bring  him  over  at  any  moment  to  fetch  you.  And  my 
motor  is  at  the  Roma." 

"  I  can't  use  that." 

"  He  can  always  come  in  two  hours." 

"Yes?" 

She  stared  out  over  the  view. 

"Do  you  want  to  see  the  rooms?  Or  would  you  rather 
come  into  the  arbor  and  have  tea  there?  " 

She  glanced  to  the  right  and  saw  the  soft  dark  of  the  shady 
place. 

"  Let  us  have  tea  in  there." 

He  smiled  at  the  "  us."  Till  that  moment  he  had  been 
looking  grave,  almost  troubled.  Now  his  face  cleared,  changed 
marvelously. 

"  Yes,  yes.  It's  shady  and  cool.  You  will  rest,  you'll  love 
it.     Come  in." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  413 

Dolores  obeyed  him  and  went  into  the  arbor. 

The  ivy  had  grown  for  years  very  thickly  over  it,  and  made 
now  what  was  almost  a  twilight  within  it.  A  table,  con- 
structed of  a  block  of  gray  stone  set  on  a  sturdy  pedestal  of 
brick  and  dried  earth,  stood  in  the  middle,  with  chairs,  brought 
there  by  the  thoughtful  Benedetto,  beside  it.  Through  the 
opening  by  which  they  entered  the  glory  of  the  sun  seemed 
trying  to  follow  them.  But  the  soft  twilight  prevailed  against 
it.     Quickly  Cesare  drew  forward  the  chairs. 

"  I  wish  they  were  better  ones,"  he  said,  almost  angrilj\ 

"  Never  mind.     What  does  it  matter?  " 

"  I  must  get  something  else.  I'm  certain  they  have  a  sort 
of  chaise  longue.     Only  one  minute !  " 

He  took  her  hand,  kissed  it,  held  it  long  to  his  lips.  Then 
he  let  it  go  and  hastened  away. 

Dolores  let  her  hand  fall  on  the  table  and  lie  there  on  the 
stone.  She  was  sitting  with  her  back  to  the  path  by  which 
she  had  com.e  up  to  the  inn,  and  her  face  towards  the  green 
wall  of  the  arbor  which  partially  shut  out  the  great  view  to- 
wards Rome  and  over  the  town  of  Olevano.  As  she  sat  there 
she  heard  faint  sounds  rising  up  to  her  from  out  of  the  midst 
of  the  tall  and  narrow  houses,  faint  human  sounds.  The  little 
world  vras  waking  from  its  siesta.  She  leaned  forward  against 
the  stone  slab  and  listened  intently.  Now  she  thought  she 
heard  cries  of  children.  Bells  sounded  and  ceased.  But  the 
human  noises  persisted.  Children  playing!  Yes,  she  heard 
that.  She  got  up,  went  over  to  the  farther  side  of  the  retreat, 
and  looked  down  through  the  roses  and  canes,  and  the  ivy  leaves. 
Immediately  beneath  her  was  a  slope  covered  with  olive 
trees,  leading  straight  to  the  first  habitations,  crowded  against 
other  high  houses  which  clustered  about  the  great  mass  of  rock 
on  the  top  of  which  rose  the  fragment  of  tower.  From  the 
farther  edge  of  this  rock  a  sort  of  spine  of  houses  disappeared 
in  the  direction  of  the  valley.  Although  now  bathed  in  a 
glory  of  sunshine  Olevano  at  this  moment  to  Dolores  looked 
both  wild  and  sad.  In  coming  to  it  she  had  passed  Palestrina, 
Genazzano  with  its  fortress  of  the  Colonnas,  Cave.  And  they, 
too,  had  seemed  to  her  wild  and  sad,  with  their  swarming 
populations  of  dark-eyed,  staring  people.  The  chauffeur  had 
made  a  mistake  in  entering  Genazzano  and  had  deviated  from 
the  road.  To  get  back  he  had  made  an  almost  complete  cir- 
cuit of  the  town  and  had  passed  at  the  foot  of  the  gigantic 
bastions  of  the  fortress.     From  a  window  far  above  her  Dolores 


414  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

had  seen  a  big,  brown  woman  lean  out  holding  a  baby  at  her 
breast  and  suckling  it. 

She  thought  of  that  woman  now  as  she  heard  the  children 
playing  beneath  her  in  some  hidden  place.  Beyond  Olevano, 
over  its  yellow-tiled  roofs,  a  great  stretch  of  gently  rising 
country,  rich  in  color,  hazy  and  romantic,  stretched  out,  end- 
ing in  a  line  of  hill  which,  depressed  towards  the  center,  sug- 
gested sea  waves  beyond,  and  to  right  and  left  rose  into  moun- 
tain summits.  Somewhere  over  that  line,  was  Frascati,  was 
Rome,  was  Palazzo  Barberini. 

But  children  were  playing  —  playing.  Their  soft  cries 
filled  her  ears.  Where  were  they?  She  could  not  discern  any 
running  and  leaping  forms,  restless,  driven  by  the  warm  young 
blood  within  them.  She  lifted  her  hands,  parted  the  canes, 
the  roses.  But  no,  she  could  not  see  those  children,  as  she  had 
seen  the  baby  at  the  breast  of  the  leaning  woman  in  that  old 
Colonna  fortress. 

She  heard  a  step.  She  started  and  turned.  And  even  as  she 
did  so  a  voice  in  her  ear  seemed  to  whisper,  "  children  —  chil- 
dren —  they  must  be  born !  A  child  —  a  child  must  be  born  I  " 
Quite  clearly  she  seemed  to  hear  it  speaking  close  in  her  ear. 

Cesare  stood  in  the  entrance  of  the  arbor,  carrying  a  folding 
chair.     Under  his  left  arm  was  a  striped  red  and  yellow  cushion. 

"I've  got  it,"  he  began.  "But  —  how  startled  you  lookl 
Did  I  startle  you  ?  " 

"  No." 

"  You  were  looking  at  the  view?  " 

"Yes,  at  the  town.  It  —  it  seems  to  be  full  of  children. 
Don't  you  hear  them?  " 

She  slightly  lifted  her  right  hand. 

"Little  rascals  —  birichini!  They  always  make  such  a  row. 
But  who  has  the  heart  to  stop  them?  " 

He  arranged  the  chair. 

"Are  you  fond  of  children?"  she  asked,  with  her  big  eyes 
always  fixed  upon  him. 

"  Yes,  of  course.     Let  me  put  you  into  j'our  chair." 

She  knew  how  he  was  forever  longing  to  touch  her.  She  let 
him  touch  her,  draw  her  down  into  the  chair  with  a  strong 
pressure  which  was  a  caress  through  which  almost  his  soul 
seemed  speaking  to  her.  He  arranged  the  cushion  behind  her 
little  dark  head,  from  which  she  removed  her  hat.  Then  he 
stood  for  a  moment  at  the  back  of  the  chair  motionless  where 
she  could  not  see  him. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  415 

"  What  Is  it?  "  she  said,     "  What  are  you  doing?  " 

He  bent  and  kissed  her  hair. 

"I  am  — I  am  — Dolores!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  china  rattling.  Quickly  he  went  over 
to  the  other  side  of  the  table. 

"  Here  is  your  tea!  " 

Erminia  came  with  the  tray.  There  were  two  cups  upon 
it.     She  set  it  down  on  the  stone  carefully,  then  stood  staring. 

"  That's  all ! "  said  Cesare.  "  We  don't  want  anything 
else." 

"Erminia!" 

Benedetto's  rough  voice  was  heard  calling  loudly.  Erminia 
went  slowly  away. 

"  Don't  move.  I  will  give  you  your  tea.  I  will  do  every- 
thing for  you." 

He  poured  the  tea  out  with  care,  as  if  ft  were  a  precious 
liquid,  and  brought  her  the  cup. 

"  I'll  put  It  here  on  the  arm  of  the  chair.  Will  you  have 
lemon  ?  " 

"Please!" 

He  cut  the  big  lemon  in  two,  and  squeezed  the  juice  of  one 
half  into  her  cup.  He  had  taken  off  his  coat  and  cap,  and  got 
rid  of  the  dust  which  had  covered  him. 

*'  I  scarcely  ever  take  tea,  but  to-day " 

He  poured  some  out  for  himself. 

"  You  took  it  that  day  on  Como." 

*'  Yes,  after  my  swim.     How  long  ago  that  seems !  " 

*'  Yes.     That  seems  very  long  ago." 

He  brought  his  chair  nearer  to  hers. 

"  I  can't  have  the  table  between  us.  Is  it  pretty  good  — 
the  tea?" 

"  I  think  so.     I'm  glad  to  have  it." 

"If  only  we  could  have  come  here  together!  I  can't  bear 
you  out  of  m.y  sight." 

"  Don't  say  that." 

"  Why  mustn't  I  say  it?" 

"  I  don't  —  you  mustn't  feel  like  that," 

"Why?" 

"  Because  —  think  of  the  future." 

Violently  almost  he  replied : 

"  I  will  not.     To-day  it  would  be  madness  to  think  of  it. 

The  man  who  can't  live  for "  he  broke  of¥.     "  You  know 

why  it  would  be  madness!"  \ 


4i6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Yes,"  she  said  in  a  changed  voice.  "  It  would  be.  No, 
don't  let  us!     Don't  let  us!     We  must  shut  it  out." 

She  closed  her  eyes  for  a  minute.  When  she  did  that  the 
children's  voices  below  seemed  to  grow  much  louder. 

"  That's  easy  to-day  —  and  it  will  be  easier  presently,"  he 
said. 

She  opened  her  eyes  and  looked  at  him. 

"  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never  quite  understand  you,"  he  added, 
looking  down  into  her  eyes. 

"  Don't  try  to.     It's  —  it's  better  not." 

*'  But  I  feel  as  if  I  would  give  half  my  life  really  to  under- 
stand you." 

"  You  never  could." 

"I!     And  any  one  else?" 

Dolores  thought  of  Nurse  Jennings. 

"  If  any  one  ever  could,"  she  said,  "  it  would  not  be  a  man." 

"  Surely  you  don't  want  to  be  understood  by  a  woman?  " 

"  But  does  it  matter  what  we  want  ?     Oh  no !  " 

"  To  us  it  matters." 

"  To  us  —  but  that's  nothing,  nothing." 

He  moved  in  his  chair,  almost,  she  thought,  like  a  big  uneasy 
boy.  Now  and  then,  often  indeed,  she  was  conscious  of  the  boy 
in  Cesare,  despite  his  intensely  masculine  physique.  But  uneasi- 
ness was  rare  in  him.  And  she  had  never  seen  him  look  self- 
conscious. 

"  Nothing?     What  do  you  mean?     I  think  it  is  everything." 

The  uneasiness  seemed  to  drop  away  from  him.  His  power- 
ful m.anhood  asserted  itself. 

"  Only  want  enough,"  he  said  in  his  firm  and  strong  voice. 
"  I  mean  with  all  you  are,  and  you  are  nearly,  or  quite,  the 
whole  way  to  getting  it.  But  some  people,  many  people,  don't 
really  care.  I  didn't,  I  think,  for  years  and  years.  And  then 
—  I  did,  I  did !  "  He  drew  in  the  fingers  of  his  left  hand  hard 
till  the  back  of  the  hand  was  ridged.  "  And  then  I  did. 
And  — "  he  lowered  his  voice.     "  I'm  here  with  you." 

"  You  think  it  is  really  enough  to  want  with  all  one's 
force?  Perhaps  it  is.  I  don't  know  that  I  had  ever  thought 
of  that  before." 

She  frowned,  like  one  who  is  thinking,  or  wishing,  pro- 
foundly. 

"  But  no,  it  isn't,"  she  said. 

She  paused. 

"  I  remember "  she  began,  and  stopped. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  417 

"'What?    What?" 

"  Long  ago,  when  I  was  far  away  from  Rome,  It  seemed 
to  me  as  if  some  one,  at  a  great  distance  off,  was  influencing 
me." 

"  Some  one?     Did  you  know  who  it  was? " 

*'  I  felt  as  if  it  were  you." 

The  blood  rushed  to  his  face,  the  triumphant  blood. 

"I  influencing  you!     When  was  it?" 

"It  was  in  the  summer  —  last  summer." 

"  When  I  put  an  end  to " 

He  thought  of  Lisetta  and  was  silent.  Suddenly  he  remem- 
bered her  passion,  her  intense,  almost  insane  jealousy,  her  de- 
spair when  he  broke  with  her.  And  he  remembered  her  look, 
the  sound  of  her  voice  in  the  Giamarchos'  drawing-room  when 
she  said,  "  You  were  kind  enough  to  bet  a  thousand  lire  to  five 
hundred  against  me.  I  only  wanted  to  thank  you.  Good- 
night, Carelli!  " 

If  Lisetta  knew!     If  she  could  see  him  now! 

*' Why  do  you  look  so  grave?"  said  Dolores,  slowly. 

She  lifted  her  cup  from  the  arm  of  the  chair  and  drank 
some  more  tea.     Was  the  cloud  coming  down  on  him  too? 

"  I  —  it  was  stupid  of  me  to  go  to  the  gate  and  meet  you," 
he  replied.     "  Because  of  the  chaufEeur." 

"  I  wondered  that  you  did  it." 

*'  But  you  said  nothing." 

"  No  —  when  it  was  done  what  was  the  use  ?  " 

"  I  oughtn't  to  have  let  him  see  me,  know  that  I  was  here. 
But  when  I  knew  you  were  there  I  forgot  everything.  But  I 
don't  suppose  it  matters.  Oh,  how  I  hate  all  the  things  that 
tie  us  down,  that  prevent  us  from  being  free!  But  we  won't 
think  of  them  to-day." 

His  voice  changed.  The  grave,  almost  sad  look  went  out 
of  his  face. 

"  No  one  will  come  here  now.  We  are  on  the  top  of  the 
world." 

He  stood  up. 

"  Will  you  have  some  more  tea?  " 

"No,   thank  you." 

She  got  up,  too,  as  if  in  reply  to  his  restless  movement,  his 
changed  voice.  They  had  sought  the  shade.  But  surely  they 
needed  the  sun. 

"Let  us  go  out!"  she  said.  "I  have  seen  nothing  here 
yet." 


4i8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  will  show  you  everything." 

She  did  not  put  on  her  hat,  but  opened  her  parasol  and  went 
out  on  to  the  terrace.  A  low  coping  of  stone,  perhaps  a  foot 
and  a  half  high,  ran  along  it.  Red  geraniums  bloomed  in  iron- 
clamped  tubs  close  to  the  house.  Some  small  pollarded  trees 
threw  patches  of  shade  on  the  wrinkled  earth. 

Erminia  and  her  father  had  disappeared.  The  inn,  with  its 
green  wooden  shutters  closed,  was  like  a  deserted  house  asleep. 
Nothing  moved  but  a  white  cat,  which  looked  as  if  it  had  just 
v/ashed  itself  for  the  year,  so  exquisitely  clean  was  it.  Slowly, 
and  walking  with  a  peculiar  delicacy,  it  crossed  the  far  end  of 
the  terrace  and  vanished,  going  down  the  slope  which  led  to 
the  pergola  of  the  lower  garden. 

"  Shall  I  show  you  the  house  first?  " 

"  Yes." 

He  led  the  way  up  the  steps. 

"  This  is  the  sitting-room." 

Dolores  shut  her  parasol  and  stepped  inside.  Directly  she 
was  in  the  room,  she  said: 

"  The  Pope  here !  " 

"Why  not?  You  will  find  his  portrait  in  hundreds  of 
houses  of  this  kind  through  all  Italy." 

"  How  sad  he  looks!  And  all  these  women  in  ruffs,  and  the 
doors!     What  a  strange  little  room!" 

She  sat  down  by  the  table  and  laid  her  parasol  on  the  white 
cloth. 

"  Is  it  true,"  she  said,  "  that  at  Genazzano,  on  the  way  here, 
there  is  a  famous  madonna,  the  Madonna  del  Buon  Consi- 
glio?" 

"  Of  course,  quite  true.     But " 

"  As  I  was  coming  out  of  Genazzano  a  man,  who  was  direct- 
ing the  chauffeur,  said,  'Does  the  lady  want  to  visit  the  chapel 
of  the  Madonna  del  Buon  ConsigUof  " 

"  Coming  out  of  Genazzano !  But  it  is  off  the  road !  You 
ought  never  to  have  gone  there." 

'*  But  we  did.  The  chauffeur  made  a  mistake.  And  so  I 
did  go  there.     But  I  did  not  see  the  madonna." 

"What  does  it  matter?" 

She  did  not  answer.     She  got  up  from  the  table. 

"  Your  room  is  in  here,"  Cesare  said,  opening  the  door  to 
the  left,  near  the  French  window.  "  The  farther  room  is 
the  best,  because  of  the  balcony." 

She   went   in.     He   stood    for   a   moment,   as  if   undecided. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  419 

Then  he  came  away  from  the  door,  and  walked  around  the 
sitting-room  examining  the  pictures.  He  lit  a  cigarette,  went 
out  to  the  balcony,  and  stood  by  the  rail  staring  into  the  dis- 
tance. 

Surely  he  had  chosen  well.  This  place  was  remote,  although 
Only  two  hours  by  motor  from  Rome.  And  it  was  in  a  mag- 
nificent position.  No  one  would  come.  The  inn  was  tiny, 
and  Dolores  had  the  whole  of  it.  They  were  in  an  almost 
perfect  solitude.  The  blood  quickened  in  his  veins.  But  Do- 
lores had  strangely  altered  his  mood  since  she  had  arrived  at 
the  inn.  Never  had  he  felt  her  to  be  so  strange,  so  mysterious, 
as  now.  The  nearer  he  drew  to  her,  the  more  intimately  he 
came  into  her  life,  the  more  passionately  he  desired  her,  the 
more  strongly  he  was  conscious  that  she  was  mysterious,  that 
she  eluded  him.  He  had  never  felt  thus  with  any  other  woman. 
And  in  her  mystery  was  there  not  a  curious,  an  inexplicable, 
sadness? 

Lisetta  had  held  no  mystery  such  as  this,  clever,  brilliant 
woman  of  the  world  though  she  was.  He  had  been  so  sure  of 
Lisetta.  Perhaps  —  soon  —  he  would  feel  again  that  sense  of 
sureness,  of  dominating  manhood,  which  he  now  desired  to  feel, 
which  a  man  ought  always  to  feel.  Yes.  To-morrow  all 
would  be  different. 

Again  the  blood  leaped  in  his  veins.  And  he  flung  away 
the  faint  uneasiness  which  had  begun  to  tarnish  his  joy,  his 
triumph.  And  when,  presently,  Dolores  returned  to  the  sitting- 
room,  the  cloud  had  lifted  from  his  face,  from  his  bearing.  And 
he  looked  like  a  man  who,  at  last,  had  his  hands  on  his  greatest 
desire. 

"  The  rooms  are  very  simple,"  he  said.  "  I've  been  so 
accustomed  to  roughing  it,  living  anyhow  when  I've  been 
shooting,  that  perhaps  I'm  a  bad  judge  for  you.  Do  you  hate 
them?  " 

"  No.     I  have  been  out  on  tKe  Halcony." 

"  It's  a  great  view,  isn't  it  ?  " 

*'  Wonderful.  Take  me  to  that  pergola  under  the  balcony. 
I've  been  looking  down  on  its  green  roof." 

"  It's  a  regular  hiding-place.     And  there's  a  bench.     Come." 

They  went  out,  turned  the  angle  of  the  inn,  descended  the 
sloping  path  beneath  the  balcony  of  Dolores'  room,  and  came 
into  the  pergola. 

"  Let  us  sit  down  here,"  Cesare  said. 

"  Yes.     And  then,  presently,  I'll  rest  till  towards  evening." 


420  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  touched,  but  only  just  touched,  her  hand  with  the  back  of 
his,  almost  as  if  by  accident. 

"  You  shall  rest.  I'll  leave  you.  I'll  go  down  to  the  Roma 
for  a  little,  over  the  slope  here.  There's  a  path  that  takes  you 
to  the  inn  without  going  through  the  town.  But  need  I  stay 
away  from  you  very  long?  " 

He  felt,  and  strangely  considering  the  circumstances,  the 
delicacy  of  her  womanhood,  the  atmosphere  of  sensitiveness  in 
which  she  always  seemed  to  move.  Oh,  the  difference  between 
her  and  Lisetta!  And  he  asked  the  question  gently,  trying  not 
to  show  too  plainly  his  desire.  But  he  wished  with  an  ardor 
which  was  almost  savage  that  the  sun  would  sink  and  the  dark- 
ness fall  about  them. 

Dolores  sat  down  on  the  narrow  bench  and  he  sat  beside 
her,  but  not  quite  close  to  her.  He  did  not  dare  to  do  that 
just  then,  because  of  his  nature.  She  looked  down  over  the 
olivo-covered  slopes  that  stretched  away  below  the  pergola; 
and  she  saw  the  white  road  far  off  with  its  faithful  cypresses 
near  it.  Some  peasants  were  passing  on  a  winding  path,  singing 
in  chorus  as  they  went.  They  disappeared,  slowly,  among  the 
trees,  but  their  voices  were  audible,  floating  up  through  the 
sparkling  air,  after  they  were  gone.  They  left  their  song  be- 
hind them,  like  a  kind  and  light-hearted  message. 

"  I  must  have  a  little  rest,"  Dolores  said.  "  Do  you  go  down 
there  to  that  road  ?  " 

"Yes.     That's  where   the  Roma  is." 

**  I'm  glad  I  came  up  here  instead." 

"  You  could  not  have  stayed  there.  It  is  right  on  the 
high  road.  But  at  this  time  of  year  every  one  is  away.  No 
one  we  know  would  pass." 

Directly  he  had  spoken,  from  the  road  arose  a  cloud  of  white 
dust. 

It  traveled  quickly,  dispersed,  disappeared,  floating  back 
from  a  small  dark  object. 

"There's  a  motor  coming!  "  said  Dolores. 

"  Not  here.  No  one  will  come  here.  You  have  the  whole 
house." 

"  But  to  an  inn -" 

"  No  one  shall  disturb  j^ou.     I  have  spoken  to  Benedetto." 

But  Dolores  still  looked  fixedly  down  at  the  place  where  the 
dust  had  been.  And  the  light-hearted  song  died  away  into 
silence. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  4Zi 

"  That's  some  one  going  to  Subiaco,  no  doubt,"  said  Cesare, 
nrmly,  cheerfully.     "  Subiaco  is  quite  near  here." 

"  I  know." 

"  Why  do  you  always  look  at  that  road  ? " 

"  I  don't  know." 

She  got   up   restlessly. 

"  Let  us  go  back  to  the  terrace.  And  then  I  think  I  will 
rest.  You  see,  it  was  a  long,  hot  drive.  I've  brought  a  book. 
I  can  sit  out  and  look  at  the  view,  and  read,  till  you  come  back." 

"  When  may  I  come,  Dolores?  " 

She  waited,  looking  at  him.     Then  she  said: 

"  On  the  terrace  I'll  tell  you." 

"  Don't  you  like  this  pergola?  I  like  it  better  than  any  other 
part  of  the  garden." 

"Why?" 

*'  Because  the  house  is  hidden." 

"  Yes,  but  I  don't  know.  I  think,  when  I  am  alone,  I  will 
sit  on  the  terrace." 

She  did  not  tell  him  that  under  the  pergola  she  could  not 
hear  the  children's  voices,  and  that  she  needed  to  hear  them 
again. 

He  took  her  back  to  a  wooden  bench  which  had  its  back 
against  the  ivy-covered  arbor  in  which  they  had  had  tea.  She 
looked  quickly  away  to  the  town,  which  was  now  full  of  voices. 

"  Yes,  I'll  sit  here." 

"  I'll  get  the  chaise  longue'* 

"  No,  don't.     I  like  this  bench.'* 

He  stood  for  a  minute. 

"  Shall  I  fetch  you  your  book?" 

"  Will  you  ?     I  left  it  on  a  chair  on  the  balcony." 

He  went  to  fetch  it,  and  glanced  at  the  title  as  he  brought 
it  to  her.  It  was  the  second  part  of  Goethe's  "Faust."  She 
thanked  him,  and  said: 

"  You  are  good  to  me." 

"Be  good  to  me!"  he  whispered,  leaning  down  to  her. 
*'  When  may  I  come  ?  " 

She  looked  away  to  the  little  town  fixedly.  Then  she  said 
in  a  low  voice: 


1     a,    luvv      vuici- . 

"  When  it's  evening." 

He  turned  away  slowly  and  left  Eer. 


422,  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 


CHAPTER  XXXIII 

When  he  had  gone,  Dolores  opened  her  little  book.  She 
glanced  at  a  page  near  the  end  of  the  volume  and  her  eyes  lit 
on  the  words,  "  Magna  Peccatrix."  Immediately  she  shut  the 
book.  Why  had  she  brought  it?  In  coming  away  from  Pal- 
azzo Barberini  she  had  caught  it  up  Vv^ithout  even  reading  the 
title.  Her  thought  had  been  merely,  "  I  must  have  some- 
thing." But  to-day  she  did  not  want  philosophy,  the  ruthless 
working  out  of  punishment  of  sin,  the  tragedy  of  women 
brought  before  her  mind.  She  laid  the  book  down  on  the 
earth  at  her  feet,  and,  turning  on  the  bench,  she  gazed  at  Ole- 
vano.  From  this  bench,  away  in  the  town  she  could  see  an 
open  space  surrounded  by  tall,  narrow  houses,  the  playground 
of  the  children  whose  voices  filled  her  ears  now  Cesare  was 
gone.  She  saw  children,  diminished  by  distance  to  tiny  shapes, 
rushing  hither  and  thither,  crossing  and  recrossing  the  space, 
vanishing,  reappearing,  never  still  even  for  one  instant.  A 
fury  of  life  seemed  to  govern  them,  life  that  came  out  of 
mothers,  life  that  fathers  had  helped  to  bring  into  being.  At 
that  moment,  as  she  gazed  at  the  little  darting  shapes,  almost 
for  the  first  time  in  her  life  Dolores  felt  herself  to  be  rather 
the  minute  fragment  of  a  gigantic  whole  than  an  isolated  Indi- 
vidual. 

"Do  I  matter?"  she  thought.  "Except  as  that  fragment 
without  which  the  whole  would  be  Incomplete  —  perhaps?  Do 
I  matter?" 

Considerations  of  good  and  evil  now  dropped  away  from 
her.  It  was  as  If  her  tired  mind  shed  them,  no  longer  able  to 
bear  their  burden.  She  sank  into  a  curious  condition  of  con- 
templative lethargy,  during  which  her  whole  being  seemed  to 
her  to  be  stretched  out,  extended,  till  it  was  like  something 
very  fragile  and  thin  that,  almost  as  a  mist,  permeated  great 
spaces.  Faintly,  very  faintly  and  vaguely,  she  felt  that  she  be- 
longed to  the  inn  and  the  garden,  to  the  olive  slopes,  to  the 
little  town  there  below  her,  to  the  open  space  and  the  calling 
children,  to  the  valley  sleeping  In  a  golden  haze,  to  the  delicate 
lines  and  folds  of  the  ranges  of  hills,  to  the  naked  and  barbaric 
flanks  of  the  Sabine  mountains. 

Magna  Peccatrix.  But  how  can  any  sinner  be  great,  or  any 
sin?  Both  surely  were  small  as  those  children  moving,  almost 
like  hurrying  Insects,  In  that  space  hemmed  In  by  tall  houses. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  423 

Dolores  had  taken  a  step  that  was  fateful.  She  was  on  her 
way  perhaps  to  ruin,  certainly  to  sin.  And  she  was  not  a  bad 
woman.  She  ought  no  doubt  at  that  moment  to  have  been  In 
a  condition  of  febrile  excitement,  "  strung  up,"  lashed  by  mad 
Impulse,  carried  away  Into  some  region  In  which  all  values  were 
changed. 

But  she  was  not.  On  the  contrary,  now  that  she  was  alone, 
her  normal  amount  of  feeling  seemed  lessened.  Presently  she 
felt  almost  sluggish,  like  —  she  fancied  —  one  of  those  Italian 
women  who,  with  crossed  arms  and  staring  eyes,  lean  forever 
upon  the  sills  of  windows  looking  Into  the  street. 

But  she  looked  not  Into  the  street,  but  Into  the  world, 
this  great  world  of  woods,  of  slopes,  of  valleys,  plains,  hills, 
mountains,  that  was  only  a  minute  fragment,  almost  Infinites- 
imal, of  the  whole. 

As  the  afternoon  waned,  her  eyes  did  not  wander  any  more 
over  the  mighty  landscape.  The  children's  playground  held 
them.  Life  seemed  to  concentrate  Itself  In  that  small  space 
hemmed  In  by  dwellings,  where  the  little  forms  ran  and 
leaped,  and  the  little  voices  sent  forth  their  shrill  cries  of  hap- 
piness and  energy.  What  are  women  meant  for?  she  thought. 
And  there  came,  like  a  sigh,  through  the  silver-green  olives  the 
answer,  ''To  give  life  —  to  hand  on  the  torch  —  to  people  the 
playgrounds  of  the  world." 

When  the  evening  was  falling  Cesare  returned,  coming  up 
by  the  slope  below  the  long  pergola.  The  white  cat  accompa- 
nied him  on  to  the  terrace,  lifting  her  tail,  arching  her  back, 
walking  on  tiptoe,  and  pressing  against  his  legs,  her  yellow  ej^es 
dull  of  a  musing  desire. 

"  You  are  rested  ?  "  he  said. 

"  Yes,  quite." 

"  I  think  It  must  be  dinner-time." 

He  looked  towards  the  Inn,  and  saw  the  broad  form  of  Er- 
minla  moving  In  the  sitting-room. 

"Yes,  she's  laying  the  table.     Nobody  has  disturbed  vou?" 

"  No." 

"  You  see,  I  chose  well  for  us." 

"  Chose !  "  she  said, 

"  Yes,  when  I  thought  of  Olevano  and  Casa  TruschI," 

Ermlnia  tinkled  a  bell.  They  walked  towards  the  house. 
Soup  was  smoking  on  the  table,  between  the  Holy  Father  and 
the  cardinal.  Although  artificial  light  was  not  yet  necessary, 
a  lamp  was  lighted,  and  shed  a  dusky  yellow  glow  over  the  vase 


424  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

of  pink  roses.  The  door  into  the  bedroom  was  carefully  shut. 
Dolores  sat  at  the  cardinal's  side  of  the  table,  Cesare  at  the 
end,  with  his  back  to  the  post-impressionist's  vision  of  spring 
and  of  love.     He  helped  the  soup. 

That  evening  he  felt  it  impossible  to  make  conversation.  To 
do  that  would  be  to  treat  Dolores  as  a  casual  acquaintance. 
They,  he  and  she,  were  surely  beyond  the  impotent  regions. 
He  scarcely  spoke.  And  he  never  felt  the  silence  to  be  awkward. 
The  dinner  was  a  bad  one.  He  noticed  that  fact,  and  had  no 
wish  to  apologize  to  Dolores.  What  did  it  matter  on  such 
a  night  as  this? 

Erminia  poured  out  red  wine,  "  Vino  del  Paese,"  into  the 
thick  glasses.  Her  feet  were  noisy  upon  the  uneven  bricks  as 
she  went,  rather  heavily,  to  and  fro.  Benedetto  passed  below 
on  the  terrace,  and  the  strong,  raw  smell  of  the  black  cigar 
he  was  smoking  penetrated  into  the  room.  Bells  sounded  in 
the  hidden  town.  Was  it  the  Angelus  ringing?  No,  surely 
it  was  too  late,  and  the  hour  of  the  Angelus  was  gone  with 
the  warm,  bright  day.  The  red  wine  was  thin,  but  not  disa- 
greeable, rather  sweet.  Perhaps  Benedetto  had  opened  a 
special  bottle.  Cesare  noticed  that  Dolores  did  not  touch  her 
glass. 

"Aren't  you  going  to  try  the  wine  of  the  country?"  he 
asked  her. 

"No." 

"  But  Benedetto  will  be  jfjuite  hurt  if  you  don't." 

"Benedetto?" 

"  Our  landlord." 

"  I  don't  want  to  hurt  his  feelings,  but  I  don't  care  for  any 
wine  to-night.     Is  it  good  ?  " 

"  Not  bad." 

Erminia  brought  in  the  veal.  Cesare  was  not  very  hungry, 
but  he  ate  quickly.     Dolores  ate  very  little. 

Night  fell.  The  dinner  was  finished.  Only  a  plate  of 
oranges  remained  on  the  table.  The  little  room  looked  differ- 
ent now  that  the  light  of  day  had  left  it.  The  women  in  ruffs 
who  were  arranged  on  the  wall  behind  Dolores  seemed  to  re- 
gard Cesare  with  a  stronger  expression,  a  slightly  greater  in- 
telligence. Dolores  glanced  up  and  met  the  eyes,  the  sad  eyes, 
of  the  Holy  Father.  She  thought  of  him,  a  prisoner  in  his 
immense  palace  beyond  the  curving  line  of  the  hill  which  shut 
in  the  view  from  the  terrace.  She  wondered  if,  in  his  many 
prayers,  he  often  prayed  for  poor  women.     Then  she  thought 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  425 

of  the  Madonna  del  Buon  Cons'iglio  at  Genazzano.  She  had 
not  visited  the  Madonna.  The  Madonna  would  not  offer  a 
prayer  for  her  soul  to-night. 

"  Have  you  quite  finished?  "  said  Cesare. 

"  Yes,  quite." 

"  Shall  we  go  out  ?  Then  Erminia  can  clear  away.  I  dare- 
say she  and  her  father  go  to  bed  early.  Or  perhaps  he  goes 
down  to  the  town  at  night." 

"  Yes,  let  us  go  out." 

She  got  up. 

"Don't  you  want  a  wrap?" 

"  Oh  no,  I  don't  think  so." 

She  went  to  the  balcony  and  stood  by  the  rail  for  a  moment, 
looking  very  tall,  very  slight.  Cesare  watched  her,  standing 
in  the  room.     She  turned. 

"  No,  it's  quite  warm." 

She  descended  the  steps.  Erminia  appeared  by  the  door  at 
the  back  of  the  room. 

"  You  can  clear  away,"  said  Cesare.  "  The  lady  won't  want 
anything  more  to-night." 

"  Eccellenza,  si." 

He  looked  at  her.     Then  he  said: 

"  Do  you  lock  up  at  night?" 

"  Come  vuole.     Nobody  comes  up  here." 

"  It  isn't  necessary,  of  course.     Meglio  cosi*'' 

He  went  out. 

Erminia  cleared  away  slowly,  shook  out  the  clotH,  spread  ft 
again  over  the  table,  set  the  lamp  on  it,  went  out  to  the  back 
regions,  and  shut  the  door  behind  her. 

Very  late  that  night,  when  Olevano  slept  profoundly,  a  gleam 
still  shone  from  the  inn,  but  not  from  the  sitting-room  window. 
It  was  seen  by  a  man  who,  very  slowly,  and  as  if  weak  or  op- 
pressed, made  his  way  in  the  gentle  starlight  up  the  slope  that 
led  from  the  road  by  the  cypresses,  to  the  long  pergola  beneath 
the  balcony  of  Dolores'  bedroom.  Before  starting  on  his 
walk  up  the  hill  this  man  had  written  and  despatched  a  letter 
to  a  woman,  addressing  it  to  a  palace  in  Rome,  and  putting  in 
one  corner  the  words,  "Far  segiure" 

The  night  was  still  and  undisturbed  by  any  wind.  The  air 
was  warm  on  the  lower  slopes  of  the  hills,  but  grew  fresher  as 
the  man  ascended.  But  he  did  not  notice  this  fact.  He  did 
not  look  at  the  dim  outlines  of  the  mountains.  He  did  not 
look  up  at  the  stars.     His  eyes  were  bent  on  the  ground,  or 


426  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

roved  around  searching  for  the  way,  until  they  perceived  the 
light  in  the  inn.     Then  they  fixed  themselves  steadily  on  that. 

It  was  just  after  one  o'clock  when  the  man  drew  near  to 
the  lower  walk  of  the  inn  garden.  Before  entering  the  garden 
he  paused,  and  gazed  up  at  the  light.  It  shone  faintly, 
but  steadily,  from  the  French  window,  which  gave  on  to  the 
balcony  of  Dolores'  bedroom.  This  window  was  a  little  way 
open,  and  was  protected  by  a  green  shutter.  The  light  shone 
through  the  aperture,  not  through  the  shutter.  But  almost 
immediately  after  the  arrival  of  the  nocturnal  wanderer  and 
his  prolonged  pause  not  far  from  the  window,  it  was  pushed 
more  widely  open,  and  the  figure  of  a  man  came  out  upon  the 
balcony.  He  stood  looking  out  to  the  night,  and  the  man 
among  the  olive  trees  near  by,  motionless  and  unseen,  stared 
up  at  him.  Then  he  turned,  spoke  to  some  one  in  the  bedroom 
behind  him,  went  in  and  closed  the  French  window. 

As  soon  as  the  window  was  shut  the  man  standing  outside 
moved  less  cautiously,  and  as  if  with  a  renewal  of  strength  of 
purpose,  forward  into  the  garden,  and  arrived  at  the  entrance 
to  the  pergola  where  Cesare  and  Dolores  had  sat  in  the  after- 
noon. He  kicked  his  foot  against  the  stone  bench,  bent,  felt 
it  with  one  hand,  and  sat  down  upon  it,  leaning  his  back  against 
the  wall.  He  was  close  to  the  entrance  of  the  pergola,  and  be- 
neath the  French  window  and  the  balcony,  but  divided  from 
them  by  the  narrow  descending  path  which  was  nearly  level 
with  the  pergola  roof.  When  he  was  seated  he  sighed,  took  off 
his  soft  hat,  laid  it  down  on  the  bench  beside  him,  then  felt  in 
his  hip  pocket,  found  something,  drew  It  out,  and  laid  that 
also  down  on  the  stone,  very  carefully  and  gently.  This  done, 
he  sat  still  for  a  very  long  time  with  his  head  slightly  bent, 
apparently  listening,  or  waiting  for  something.  Under  the  per- 
gola it  was  dark  and  perfectly  silent.  There  was  not  a  sound 
In  the  night. 

Presently,  somewhere  far  away,  a  bell  faintly  sounded  the 
hour.  It  was  two  o'clock.  The  man  slightly  shifted  on  the 
stone.  His  head  drooped  forward  a  little  more.  And  again 
he  sighed  profoundly.  Then  he  put  forth  his  hand  and  felt 
for  an  instant  at  the  object  he  had  taken  from  his  hip  pocket 
and  laid  so  carefully  beside  him.  Satisfied  apparently,  he  re- 
moved his  hand  and  dropped  it  on  his  knee.  Then  again  he 
was  perfectly  still,  as  if  attentively  listening  for  something. 
Nearly  another  hour  passed  by  without  incident.  Then  sud- 
denly the  man  started  violently,  and  uttered  a  hoarse  exclama- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  427 

tion  in  a  harsh  and  almost  shrill  voice.  A  white  cat  had  stolen 
Into  the  pergola,  and  had  rubbed  against  his  legs.  In  a  mo- 
ment he  had  seized  and  strangled  it.  Then  he  fell  back, 
breathing  heavily.  Far  away  the  bell  sounded  three.  And  di- 
rectly afterward  there  came  from  above  the  grating  sound  of  a 
badly  fitting  window  being  pushed  open.  The  man  in  the  per- 
gola wiped  his  face  and  his  hands  with  a  handkerchief,  got  up, 
took  hold  of  the  thing  he  had  laid  on  the  bench,  lifted  it,  and 
moved  to  the  entrance  of  the  pergola. 

There  was  the  sound  of  a  shot.     He  fell,  dropping  the  pistol. 

Dolores  came  out  upon  the  balcony,  stood,  moved  in  —  a  flash 
of  white  in  the  light  from  the  lamp  — and  came  to  Cesare,  who 
was  in  the  act  of  leaving  the  sitting-room  by  the  balcony  that 
led  to  the  outside  staircase.     She  caught  his  arm. 

"You  heard?" 

"What  was  it?     Where  did  it  come  from?     Was  it " 

"  A  shot  —  the  pergola  under  the  window." 

"Hush!     From  the  pergola?" 

"  Yes." 

They  stood  looking  at  each  other.  No  one  stirred  in  the 
inn.  Benedetto  and  Erminia,  sleeping  at  the  back,  made  no 
sign. 

"  I  must  go  to  see  what's  happened,  who  it  is !  " 

His  face  was  sternly  grave,  troubled. 

"  Yes." 

"  But "  he  paused. 

"  I'll  come  with  you ! "  Dolores  whispered. 

"  No." 

She  clung  to  his  arm.  Very  quietly  he  took  hold  of  her 
hand.     And  his  was  firm,  warmly  protective. 

"  Carissima  —  wait!  In  a  mom.ent  I'll  be  back.  Don't  stir, 
unless  you  hear  any  one  coming  in  the  house.  If  you  do,  go 
back  to  the  room,  turn  out  the  lamp,  get  into  bed,  pretend  to 
be  sleeping.     Hush!     Zitto!" 

He  dropped  her  hand  and  disappeared  in  the  darkness. 

Dolores  remained  where  she  was.  She  was  shaking.  Bend- 
ing her  head  forward  she  listened.  What  seemed  to  her  an 
immense  time  went  slowly  by.  The  inn  was  always  wrapped  in 
silence.  Benedetto  and  his  daughter  had  not  stirred.  At  last 
she  heard  what  sounded  like  a  creeping  footstep  outside,  and 
Cesare  re-entered  the  room.  Dolores  sprang  to  him.  He  put 
his  arm  round  her  and  drew  her  into  the  bedroom.  She 
looked  at  his  eyes. 


428  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"Oh,  what  Is  It?    Who " 

''Hush!" 

He  made  her  sit  down  on  the  bed. 

"  It's  a  suicide." 

"Under  the  pergola?" 

"  Yes." 

"  That  man  —  the  landlord  ?  " 

"  No." 

His  face  frightened  her.  She  drew  close  to  him,  with  a 
strange  deeper  feeling  of  horror. 

"  It's  Montebrunol  " 

*'  Montebruno !     Here !  " 

"It's  he!" 

"And  he's—?" 

"  Dead  —  there  on  the  path," 

She  said  nothing.  Her  white  face  looked  for  a  moment  com- 
pletely stupid. 

"  He's  dead.     Nothing  to  be  done  for  him.     But  —  you !  " 

He  put  his  hands  to  his  head,  took  them  away. 

"  I  must  get  away  Immediately,"  he  whispered,  "  before  any- 
thing Is  discovered.  It  must  never  be  known  I  was  here  with 
you  to-night." 

"No,^no.     Oh,  but !"^ 

"Wait  —  wait!  I'm  thinking  about  you,  your  position  to- 
morrow —  no,  to-day,  when  —  he's  found.  You  must  get  back 
to  Rome  to-day,  very  early,  before  the  authorities  are  fetched 
from  the  town.  You  must  be  gone  before  they  come,  if  pos- 
sible." 

"How?     How?" 

"  You'll  have  to  go  back  In  my  motor," 

"But " 

"  My  man  will  drive  you.     He'll  never  speak.     He's  always 

been  with  me.     I'll  send  him  early,  with  a  letter  for  Bene 

No,  wait!     That  w^on't  do!     Gran  Dio!" 

"  Let  me  go  now !     I'll  go  now !  " 

"No!     No!" 

"Yes,  I'll  go  now!  I  can't  stay  here  with  —  him.  I'll  go 
now!" 

She  tried  to  spring  up.     He  held  her  down  on  the  bed. 

"Dolores!" 

She  yielded,  trembling  violently. 

"  If  you  go  away  now  you'll  be  ruined.  It  Is  I  who  must: 
go." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  429 


But  I  can't 


"  You  must.     Unless  • 


Suddenly  he  seized  both  her  hands. 

"  Unless  you  will  face  it  all,  let  it  all  be  known,  let  me  stay; 
till  the  dawn,  protect  you " 

An  expression  of  horror  distorted  her  face. 

"Never!     Never!" 

She  drew  away  her  hands. 

"  I'll  stay  alone  here.  I'll  stay.  He  —  he  meant  to  ruin 
me." 

'^'He?" 

She  pointed  to  the  window. 

"What  do  you  mean?" 

"  He  always  made  me  afraid." 

She  shook  more  convulsively.  Her  teetH  chattered.  He 
tried  to  put  his  arm  round  her. 

"No,  no!     Don't  touch  me  now!" 

"  Then" —  his  low  voice  was  almost  stern  — "you  must 
do  this." 

"  Anything  —  anything  you  tell  me!  " 

"  When  I  go,  you  must  get  into  bed.  Try  to  rest.  Keep 
the  window  open." 

"Yes,  anything,  anything!" 

"  Directly  you  hear  Benedetto  moving,  directly  he  finds  the 
body,  and  you  hear  him  call  out,  go  to  the  balcony.  Speak  to 
him  before  any  one  else  can.  You  know  nothing.  But  when 
he  tells  you,  make  him  understand  that  you  must  get  away, 
that  you  can't  be  mixed  up  in  such  a  thing,  that  he's  not  to  go 
to  the  town  till  you  are  gone.  He'll  understand.  And  —  you 
must  tell  him  he  will  have  money." 

Dolores  felt  physical  nausea. 

"  I'll  settle  it  with  him  later.  It's  the  only  thing  to  be  done. 
Then  you  must  go  on  foot  down  the  slope  till  you  reach  the 
road.  The  motor  shall  fetch  you.  My  man  shall  be  there. 
Go  back  to  Rome  at  once." 

"My  things!" 

"  Can  you  carry  the  dressing  case  with  you?  " 

"Yes!     Yes!" 

"  Give  me  the  bag  now.  I'll  take  it  with  me.  And  my  man 
will  manage  about  it.  Don't  think  of  all  that.  Trust  to  me." 
He  touched  her  sleeve.  "  You  must  get  this  into  the  dressing 
case." 

"  Yes,  yes." 


430  THE  FRUITFUL  .VINE 

"And  now " 


"  My  things!     My  things!" 

Cesare  went  to  the  window  and  stood  there  in  silence,  looking 
out  toward  the  pergola  under  which  lay  the  corpse  of  Monte- 
bruno,  while  Dolores  thrust  into  the  bag  the  few  things  she 
had  brought  with  her  from  Rome.  He  did  not  offer  to 
help  her.  He  did  not  look  at  her.  Something  within  him 
told  him  just  then  to  let  her  alone.  His  dark  face  was  grim 
and  set.  At  this  moment  he  was  raging  against  the  fate  which 
had  turned  this  night  into  tragedy  and  fear. 

"They  are  m!"         _ 

Dolores  was  whispering.  He  turned,  bent,  shut  the  bag, 
took  it  up  and  tested  its  weight. 

"  Now  I  must  go.     Do  you  quite  understand  ?  " 

"Yes!     Yes!" 

"  1 11  get  back  to  Rome  somehow.  That  won't  be  difficult. 
iYou  had  better  get  out  in  Rome  and  take  the  first  taxicab  you 
see  to  the  palace.  My  man  can  pretend  something's  gone 
wrong  with  his  machine  and  that  he  has  to  make  you  get  out 
and  change.  Tell  Benedetto  that  I  —  II  Principino  —  shall 
communicate  with  him  at  once.  He  will  understand.  Now  — " 
he  made  a  movement  to  take  her  in  his  arms.  She  shrank 
back. 

"  But  —  but  that  woman!  "  she  whispered. 

"Woman!" 

"Here  in  the  house!" 

"  Benedetto's  her  father.     He'll  see  to  her." 

"But  If  she  gets  up  first!  If  she  finds  him!  What  shall 
I  do?" 

"  Seem  to  be  asleep  till  she  calls  her  father.  Then  j'ou 
must  get  him  alone  before  he  goes  to  the  town.  The  great 
thing  is  to  make  him  understand  about  the  mone3^  Then 
he'll  silence  his  daughter.  But  you  must  do  that  before  either 
of  them  has  any  opportunity  of  talking.  If  I  could  stay 
and " 

"No,  no!     Go  now!     Go!" 

He  moved  towards  her. 

"No,  no!"  she  whispered  sharply.     "Not  now!" 

His  brows  came  down  till  his  eyes  were  almost  concealed. 
Then  he  lifted  the  bag  and  left  the  room  without  another  word. 
Dolores  went  to  the  French  window  and  looked  out.  In  a  mo- 
ment she  saw  the  dim  figure  of  Cesare  below,  walking  slowly 
and  softly,  his  right  arm  lifted,  the  bag  against  his  shoulder. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  43 1 

By  the  movement  of  his  head  she  knew  he  looked  up  at  her. 
He  descended  the  sloping  path  till  he  reached  the  point  where 
it  turned  abruptly.  She  shuddered.  She  knew  that  now  he 
was  close  to  the  corpse.  He  did  not  go  into  the  pergola,  but 
descended  to  the  left,  and  was  taken  by;  the  darkness  among  the 
olive  trees. 

As  he  disappeared  from  her  sight  Dolores  felt  a  great  horror 
of  utter  loneliness  sweep  over  her  spirit.  She  shrank  away 
from  the  window.  Behind  her  was  the  open  door  between  the 
first  bedroom  and  the  sitting-room.  Beyond  that,  she  knew, 
was  the  open  French  window  leading  to  the  outside  steps. 
She  was  almost  out  of  doors.  What  protection  had  she  against 
the  night  and  —  it?  She  saw  Montebruno's  bloodshot  and  ex- 
hausted eyes  regarding  her  with  pitiless  scrutiny.  She  saw  the 
wrinkles  moving  busily,  like  living  individualities,  on  his  domed 
forehead.  She  saw  his  hanging,  puckered  cheeks,  his  drooping 
lips.  She  heard  his  voice  out  there  in  the  darkness  saying: 
*'  There  is  not  much  room  in  life  for  pity."  And  she  felt  sick 
with  repulsion  and  dread.  Yet  at  first  she  dared  not  go  into 
the  sitting-room  to  shut  the  window.  She  sat  on  the  edge  of  the 
bed,  with  her  hands  tightly  clenched,  listening,  waiting.  Now 
she  wished  almost  that  she  had  not  let  Cesare  go.  He  was  ready 
to  stay.  He  was  unafraid  of  opinion,  of  scandal,  of  condem- 
nation. Ah !  but  he  was  a  man,  and  loved  her.  And  she  was 
a  woman,  and  did  not  love  him.  How  she  hated,  abhorred  her- 
self at  that  moment !  She  felt  sick  because  she  was  alive,  because 
such  a  woman  was  alive.  The  abrupt  intrusion  into  this  high 
and  lonely  place,  into  this  dead  hour  of  the  night,  of  one  whom 
she  knew,  and  of  whom  Instinctively  she  had  always  felt  afraid ; 
the  mystery  of  his  presence,  of  his  inexplicable  and  frightful 
action,  seemed  to  have  shaken  the  soul  of  her  out  of  a  region 
of  mania  in  which  it  had  long  been  dwelling.  She  felt  like  one 
who  by  a  violent  blow  had  been  not  stunned,  but  recalled  to 
her  true  self. 

Her  true  self!     Magna  Peccatrix!     Magna  Peccatrix! 

But  the  fear  of  the  dead  man  increased  upon  her  till  she  could 
no  longer  remain  where  she  was.  And,  making  an  intense 
effort  of  the  will,  she  stole  into  the  dark  sitting-room.  The 
night  air  met  her  at  the  window  like  a  vv^atcher  who  knew  what 
she  had  done.  It  felt  at  her  face  —  surely  with  fingers  of  the 
blind  that  are  eyes  —  as  quickly  she  drew  the  window  towards 
her,  and  softly  secured  it.  Then  she  fled  back  into  the  bedroom. 
Swiftly  she  gathered  together  the  things  that  belonged  to  her 


432  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

dressing-case.  She  must  be  ready  to  start  directly  she  had 
spoken  with  Benedetto.     She  did  her  hair. 

And  all  the  time  the  dead  man  was  with  her,  attentive  to 
what  she  was  doing,  as  if  he  had  traveled  far  to  keep  Avatch 
about  her  that  night.  [When  at  last  she  had  everything  ready, 
she  obeyed  Cesare  and  got  into  bed.  But  she  left  the  lamp 
burning.  She  had  not  the  courage  to  put  it  out,  although  she 
knew  well  ft  would  be  wiser  to  do  so.  The  light  Indicated 
wakefulness  to  any  one  who  looked  at  the  inn.  She  got  out 
and  closed  the  window  of  the  bedroom.  Surely  through  the 
shutters  the  light  could  not  penetrate.  But  then,  directly  she 
had  done  this,  she  was  afraid  she  might  not  hear  Benedetto  stir- 
ring outside  In  the- morning.  And  she  re-opened  the  window  a 
little  way.  She  must  put  out  the  light.  She  realized  that. 
But  still  she  hesitated.  She  knew  what  the  dark  would  bring. 
For  nearly  ten  minutes  she  stood  by  the  lamp,  listening,  always 
striving  after  the  necessary  courage. 

Then  a  bird  uttered  a  faint  call  outside.  Instantly  she 
turned  out  the  lamp.  Trembling  she  felt  her  way  into  bed,  and 
drew  the  clothes  about  her. 

If  Benedetto  did  not  come!  If  he  v/ere  not  the  first  person 
to  find  the  body!  A  peasant  going  to  work  might  come  upon 
it,  or  see  it  from  the  slope;  might  go  Into  the  town,  might  bring 
up  the  authorities  before  she  could  do  anything.  She  would  be 
questioned.  There  would  be  a  scandal.  She  had  known  jMon- 
tebruno.  She  v/ould  have  to  say  so.  She  v/ould  be  asked  why 
he  was  there.  They  would  think  she  must  know.  Every  paper 
would  be  full  of  the  matter.  Her  name,  the  answers  she  gave, 
everything  would  be  published  and  read  by  every  one. 

Why  was  Alontebruno  there? 

That  was  the  thing  Inexplicable. 

And  why  had  he  come  to  this  lonely  place  to  kill  himself? 

Dolores  could  not  find  a  reason,  but  her  Instinct  told  her 
that  Montebruno's  presence  at  Olevano  was  not  fortuitous,  that 
It  must  be  connected  with  herself  and  Cesare.  She  felt  posi- 
tive of  this,  and  of  this  only.  The  dead  man  had  known  they 
were  here.  He  had  followed  them,  why  she  did  not  know. 
And  then  he  had  killed  himself.  Why?  What  could  such  an 
act  have  to  do  with  herself  and  Cesare? 

Something  seemed  to  v/hlrl  round  In  her  head.  She  shut  her 
eyes.  She  lay  very  still.  The  v/ords  "  Magna  Peccatrix " 
formed  themselves  In  pale  yellow  edged  with  pale  flame-like 
blue  before  her  shut  eyes.     She  read  them  diligently  till  a  gray- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  433 

ness  fell  on  her  eyelids,  and  she  knew  that  the  dawn  had  come. 

Then  she  opened  her  eyes,  and  waited  for  the  sound  of  steps 
in  the  inn. 

The  light  grew  stronger,  revealing  the  bare,  uncarpeted  cham- 
ber, the  ugly  lamp  with  a  blackened  chimney  revealing  to  the 
sun  the  dead  man  under  the  pergola.  Birds  chirped  and  pres- 
ently sang.  On  the  brick  beside  the  bed  of  Dolores  a  sunray 
pointed.     But  no  one  came.     There  was  no  sound  in  the  house. 

She  longed  to  get  up,  to  dress,  to  take  her  bag  and  fly  from 
the  inn.  But  Cesare  had  told  her  not  to.  She  must  obey 
him.  He  knew  better  than  she.  And  controlling  herself  she 
lay  still,  listening,  always  listening. 

And  at  last  she  heard  the  dull  sound  of  movement  some- 
where within  the  house.  It  seemed  to  come  from  the  back. 
Surely  a  door  had  been  roughly  opened  by  some  one.  She  could 
no  longer  lie  still.  And  she  got  up  and  crept  over  to  the  French 
window,  stood  back  against  the  Venetian  shutter,  leaned  for- 
ward and  looked  out. 

After  waiting  for  two  or  three  minutes  she  heard  a  step 
Outside,  and  saw  Benedetto  yawning  and  stretching  as  he  came 
very  slowly  from  some  back  region  of  the  inn.  He  walked 
directly  towards  the  pergola.  Dolores  drew  quite  away  from  the 
opening  of  the  window  behind  the  shutter.  Almost  instantly 
she  heard  a  cry,  "  Gesu  Maria!  Gesu  Maria!  "  The  second 
time  it  was  loud.  She  thought  of  what  Cesare  had  told  her  to 
do,  went  out  on  the  balcony  just  as  she  was,  leaned  over,  and 
called  in  Italian: 

"Who's  there?" 

"Gesu  Maria!     Madonna!     Madonna!" 

"  Who's  there  ?     W^hat  is  it  ?     What's  the  matter  ?  " 

Her  voice  sounded  shrill  in  her  ears.  Benedetto  appeared, 
raising  his  arms. 

"Madonna!     Madonna!" 

He  came  under  the  balcony  gesticulating,  with  a  horrified 
expression  upon  his  face. 

"Madonna  mia!"  he  cried,  looking  straight  up  at  Dolores, 
with  both  his  arms  lifted  towards  her. 

"Oh,  what  is  it?" 

"  Venrra!     Venga!  " 

She  hurried  away  through  the  sitting-room,  trying  to  act 
without  thinking.  As  she  went,  she  knew  that  she  was  wonder- 
ing about  the  woman,  Ermlnla.  Why  did  she  not  come?  Why 
had  she  not  heard  the  cries  of  her  father  ? 


434  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Venga!     Lei  venga!  " 

Dolores  ran  to  Benedetto.  He  seized  her  by  the  arm  roughly, 
pulled  her  after  him  down  the  path  beneath  her  window,  stopped 
before  a  dark,  prostrate  mass,  and  cried: 

"  Ecco!     Ecco  una  bella  cosa!  " 

Dolores  recoiled.  She  scarcely  looked  at  the  dead  man,  yet 
with  an  almost  preternatural  swiftness  she  saw  him  clearly. 
She  even  noticed  details  of  his  hideous  appearance.  She  noticed 
the  dreadful  stillness  of  those  lines  in  his  great  forehead  which, 
when  he  was  alive,  had  almost  always  been  in  movement,  the 
length  of  the  teeth  exposed  in  a  sort  of  grin,  the  disgusting  livid 
color  of  the  hands  which  she  remembered  so  well  dealing  the 
cards  at  the  Glamarcho  bridge  tournament. 

And  she  saw  on  the  path  just  beyond  the  dead  man  the  white 
cat,  which  had  pressed  against  Cesare,  lying  stark,  with  its  head 
near  the  hand  that  had  strangled  it. 

Afterward  she  knew  that  it  was  the  sight  of  the  dead  beast 
which  had  lashed  her  into  a  sort  of  violent  determination, 
resembling  strength. 

She  seized  Benedetto's  arm. 

"  Come  here!  "  she  said. 

When  they  were  out  of  sight  of  the  corpse  she  said: 

"Where's  your  daughter?" 

"  Gone  to  get  milk  in  the  town." 

"  Very  well.  Now,  listen  to  what  I  am  going  to  say,  and 
obey  me  strictly  —  strictly,  you  understand  !  " 

"Signora!"  said  Benedetto,  looking  at  her  with  a  sudden 
amazement,  which  showed  her  that  his  mind  had  for  the  moment 
left  the  dead  man. 

**  You  have  got  to  do  something  for  me!  " 


CHAPTER  XXXIV 

A  WEEK  later,  when  all  the  Italian  papers  were  still  full  of 
the  suicide  of  Marchese  Montebruno,  Dolores  received  the  fol- 
lowing note,  the  envelope  of  which  bore  the  postmark  of  Torino: 

*'  If  you  continue  to  see  Don  Cesare  Carelli  alone,  your  hus- 
band will  be  informed  that  you  were  with  him  at  Casa  Truschi, 
Olevano  Romano,  on  the  night  of  September  the  twenty-second. 
Absolute  proof  of  it  exists,  and  is  in  my  hands. — L.  M." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  435 

Dolores  knew  at  once  that  this  note  came  from  Princess  Man- 
celli.  She  had  read  it  in  the  evening.  In  the  morning,  when 
the  post  had  come,  she  had  looked  quickly  to  see  if  there  was  a 
letter  from  Theo.  On  finding  there  was  not,  she  had  left  all 
her  letters  on  the  writing-table  in  her  sitting-room,  and  had 
gone  out  to  spend  a  long  day  with  Lady  Sarah. 

Since  the  visit  to  Olevano  she  had  felt  afraid  to  be  alone. 
Indeed,  since  her  abrupt  return  to  Palazzo  Barberini,  she  had 
been  perpetually  encompassed  by  fear. 

She  had  dreaded  lest,  despite  all  that  had  been  done,  Bene- 
detto should  speak ;  or  that,  if  he  was  circumspect  or  greedy 
enough  to  keep  silent,  his  daughter  should  be  less  wary.  And 
other  terrors  assailed  her.  There  was  the  chauffeur  who  had 
brought  her  from  Rome  to  Olevano.  What  was  to  prevent  him 
from  gossipping?  Or  the  authorities  at  Olevano  might  find  out 
for  themselves  that  she  had  stayed  at  Casa  Truschi  that  night 
and  had  vanished  mysteriously  at  dawn.  On  the  way  down  to 
the  road,  after  her  interview  with  Benedetto,  she  had  met  only 
one  old  man,  gentle-eyed,  smiling,  courteous.  He  had  offered 
to  carry  her  dressing-case.  She  had  quickly  refused.  But  she 
had  thanked  him,  forced  a  smile  to  her  lips,  anxious  —  she 
scarcely  knew  w'hy,  unless  it  was  that  at  the  moment  she  was 
a  craven  — to  leave  a  good  Impression  upon  him. 

That  old  man  1  might  he  not  tell  ?  Would  he  not  be  sure  to 
tell  of  the  mysterious  iorestiera  with  the  burden  who  had  come 
to  him  through  the  olive  trees?  It  seemed  to  Dolores  impos- 
sible that  her  presence  at  the  inn  should  not  become  known  in 
the  town  of  Olevano;  that.  If  It  did  become  known,  the  fact 
should  not  get  into  the  newspapers  in  connection  with  the  sui- 
cide of  Montebruno. 

Nevertheless,  a  whole  week  had  passed,  and,  so  far  as  she 
knew,  there  had  not  been  a  hint  of  any  woman  being  connected 
with  the  tragedy.  Upon  the  body  of  Montebruno  had  been 
found  a  paper,  written  by  him.  In  which  he  had  coldly  stated 
that  his  death  would  be  self-inflicted,  and  that  his  action  would 
be  owing  to  his  recent  complete  and  final  ruin  at  the  Monte 
Carlo  gambling  tables.  There  was  therefore  no  question  of 
murder  in  connection  with  his  death.  But  the  papers  had 
voiced  the  general  astonishment  that  it  should  have  taken  place 
where  It  did.  A  taxicab  driver  in  Rome  had  stated  that  Monte- 
bruno had  engaged  him  on  the  day  of  the  tragedy,  and  had 
ordered  him  to  drive  by  Palestrina  to  Subiaco.  From  Subiaco 
Montebruno  had  returned  to  Olevano  in  a  carriage  with  one 


436  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

horse  by  night,  after  visiting  the  Albergo  Dell'Aniene,  where  he 
had  written  a  letter.  He  had  paid  and  dismissed  the  driver  In 
the  road  not  far  from  the  Albergo  Roma.  Afterwards  he  had 
been  to  the  Roma,  but  only  for  a  very  few  minutes.  The  land- 
lord had  not  known  who  he  was.  He  had  ordered  a  cup  of 
black  coffee  and  a  glass  of  brandy,  had  drunk  them  quickly,  and 
had  immediately  left  the  inn.  From  that  moment,  until  his 
body  was  found  at  the  entrance  to  the  pergola,  nothing  was 
known  of  his  actions. 

But  as  the  days  had  gone  by,  the  fear  of  Dolores,  instead  of 
subsiding,  had  increased.  And  she  knev/  —  had  she  not  known 
from  the  beginning?  —  that  it  was  a  fear  whose  seat  was  in 
her  ov/n  conscience.  She  was  afraid,  yes,  of  consequences,  of 
a  hideous  publicity,  of  social  ruin.  What  woman  is  not?  But 
behind  all  the  ugly,  the  common  fears,  was  one  greater  than 
them ;  the  good  woman's  fear  of  the  other  v/oman  who  had  done 
the  deed. 

Dolores  was  afraid  of  herself.  And  in  that  terror  was  con- 
tained another  terror,  lest  Theo  should  ever  become  aware  of 
the  existence  of  the  woman  who  was  not  good. 

Swiftly  indeed  upon  the  wrong  action  had  come  punishment. 
At  once,  ere  the  night  was  over,  she  had  been  plunged  into  the 
sordidness  of  sin.  Never,  even  if  she  lived  to  be  very  old, 
would  she  be  able  to  forget  those  Vv'ords  of  her  lover,  spoken  in 
darkness,  "  You  must  tell  him  he  will  have  money." 

Bribery!  Was  that  to  be  the  first  action  of  the  new  life, 
that  was  divided  inexorably  from  the  old  life  of  the  woman 
who  had  kept  herself  out  of  the  mud  ?  And  then  had  come  the 
necessary  plunge  into  lies. 

Dolores  had  lied  to  Lady  Sarah. 

When  Lady  Sarah  had  spoken  of  Montebruno's  suicide,  and 
of  Olevano  Romano,  Dolores  had  said,  in  a  panic  of  fear,  that 
she  had  never  been  there,  and  knew  nothing  about  that  region. 

Afraid  to  remain  alone,  after  her  return  to  Rome  she  had 
sought  out  Lady  Sarah.  In  doing  so  she  had  both  dreaded, 
and  longed  after.  Lady  Sarah's  transparent  rectitude.  She  felt 
just  then  that  she  dared  not  meet  Nurse  Jennings.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  the  nurse's  calm,  searching  eyes,  if  they  looked  upon 
her,  must  know.  And  she  felt  as  if  Lady  Sarah  were  too  remote 
from  all  sin  to  know,  as  if  the  atmosphere  of  simple  goodness 
in  which  she  habitually  moved  must  keep  her  from  knowledge 
unless  she  were  told  all  the  truth. 

Lady  Sarah  had  welcomed  her,  as  she  always  did,  warmly. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  4-37 

She  had  never  lost  her  tendresse  for  Dolores,  She  had  never 
resented  Dolores'  reserve  with  her,  a  reserve  which  had  suc- 
ceeded that  moment  of  revelation  on  the  Pincio,  and  the  fev/ 
impulsive  words  spoken  before  the  housewarming  dinner  in 
Palazzo  Barberini,  But  she  had  felt  surprise  at  the  diligence 
with  which  Dolores  now  sought  her  out.  And  she  had  not 
failed  to  notice  the  peculiar  terror  which  Dolores  now  evidently- 
had  of  being  alone. 

Something  was  verj^  wrong.  The  elder  woman  was  sure  of 
that.  She  felt  agitation,  turmoil,  hidden  distress,  when  Do- 
lores was  with  her.  But  though  Dolores  came  to  her  day  by- 
day,  they  only  talked  of  indifferent  things,  pleasantly,  with 
friendliness,  but  without  even  the  amount  of  frankness  which 
once  had  existed  between  them.  They  visited  sights.  They 
lunched  at  the  Constantino.  They  spent  one  day  a  long  time  in 
the  Villa  Mattei.  But  they  were  never  really  intimate  during 
their  intercourse. 

Lady  Sarah  was  very  delicate  in  mind.  She  was  incapable  of 
taking  action  to  force  a  confidence  from  any  one.  Sometimes, 
secretly,  she  had  almost  blamed  herself  for  this.  She  was  not 
sure  that  she  did  not  deserve  blame  now.  Two  small  incidents 
which  occurred  during  the  last  week  specially  troubled  her.  For 
she  thought  they  indicated  a  distress  that  must  be  connected  with 
the  very  deepest  things  of  a  heart  and  nature. 

During  her  visit  with  Dolores  to  the  Villa  Mattei  —  which 
Dolores  had  never  before  seen  —  Lady  Sarah  led  her  to  the  walk 
overlooking  the  view  to  the  Alban  mountains.  They  sat  down 
together  on  the  wooden  seat  against  the  carven  sarcophagus, 
beneath  the  small  trellis  which  there  casts  a  patch  of  shade. 
And  they  talked  quietly  to  each  other.  At  that  moment  Dolores 
seemed  less  sad,  less  distressed  than  usual.  The  peace  of  the 
beautiful  antique  garden,  perhaps,  laid  a  delicate  hand  on  her 
spirit.  But  presently  she  turned  her  head  to  look  at  the 
sarcophagus.  "There's  something  written  here!"  she  said. 
"What  is  it,  I  wonder?"  And  before  Lady  Sarah  could 
speak  she  read  aloud:  "Qui  San  Filippo  Ncri  discorreva  coi  suoi 
dlscepoU  delle  cose  di  Die."  Instantly  she  got  up  from  the 
seat.  She  made  no  comment  on  the  words.  But  it  seemed  to 
Lady  Sarah  as  if  she  fled  from  them,  like  one  disturbed,  or  even 
terrified. 

The  second  incident  which  sadly  impressed  Lady  Sarah  oc- 
curred on  a  Sunday  afternoon,  Dolores  and  she  had  taken  a 
walk  on  the  Pincio.     On  their  way  home,  as  they  drew  near 


438  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

to  the  church  of  the  Sacre  Coeur,  Lady  Sarah  was  moved  to 
say: 

"  Do  you  remember  once,  a  long  while  ago,  I  asked  you  to 
come  to  church  with  me  here  ?  " 

"Did  you?" 

"  Yes.  And  you  answered  that  you  were  obliged  to  go  to 
tea  at  the  Excelsior  with  Countess  Boccara." 

"  I  remember.     I  was  engaged  to  her." 

"  You  aren't  to-day?  "  Lady  Sarah  asked,  smiling. 

"  But  she  isn't  in  Rome. 

They  were  now  in  front  of  the  church. 

"  Then  won't  you  come  in  with  me  to-day,  and  hear  the  nuns 
singing?  " 

Dolores  hesitated.  In  her  large  dark  eyes  Lady  Sarah  surely 
saw  a  combat  between  opposed  feelings.     But  at  last  she  said: 

"Very  well!" 

Her  voice  was  low,  and  her  manner  strangely  reluctant. 
Yet  she  mounted  the  steps  with  a  quickness  that  seemed  almost 
eager.  And  together  they  entered  the  church,  took  seats  quite 
at  the  back,  and  kneeled  down.  The  service  had  already  begun. 
The  organ,  placed  in  the  gallery  behind  them,  sounded  softly. 
A  calm,  and  a  very  pure  music  penetrated  through  the  dim 
church,  in  which  so  many  young  hearts  of  children  have  felt 
their  first  ecstasies  of  aspiration,  have  gone  forward,  with  rever- 
ent, yet  almost  amorous  feet  towards  the  ideal  that  ever  recedes. 

And  then  the  nuns  sang  softly. 

There  were  few  people  in  the  church.  No  one  came  in  or 
went  out,  as  often  happens,  disturbing  the  peace  of  the  worship- 
ers. And  Lady  Sarah  forgot  Dolores,  forgot  the  hour  of 
her  life.  She  was  back  in  the  past  with  her  children,  with  the 
two  girls  who  had  died. 

She  was  recalled  by  a  hard,  low  sound.  She  listened.  She 
heard  it  again.  It  was  a  sob,  and  came  from  Dolores,  who  at 
this  moment  got  up  quickly  from  her  knees  and,  without  a  look 
or  word,  went  out  of  the  church.  Lady  Sarah  follov/ed,  and 
found  her  on  the  steps. 

There  were  no  tears  in  the  eyes  of  Dolores.  As  Lady  Sarah 
came  to  her,  she  said: 

"  Dear  Lady  Sally,  do  please  stay!  I'm  so  sorry  to  have 
disturbed  you.  But  the  church  is  too  airless  for  me.  It  made 
me  feel  quite  ill,  as  if  I  were  being  choked,  almost.  I  mustn't 
go  there  again.     Good-by.     I'm  so  sorry." 

By  a  movement  in   her  long  throat  Lady  Sarah  saw  that 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  439 

another  sob  was  coming.  She  turned  sharply  and  descended  the 
steps. 

And  Lady  Sarah  went  back  to  the  church,  and  while  the  nuns 
sang  softly  she  prajed  for  the  soul  of  Dolores. 

She  prayed,  but  she  did  not  ask  Dolores  why  her  prayers 
were  so  sorely  needed. 

Had  she  stood  by  Dolores  now,  and  read  the  words  of  Prin- 
cess Mancelli,  she  would  have  known  why. 

"  If  you  continue  to  see  Don  Cesare  Carelli  alone,  your  hus- 
band will  be  informed  that  you  were  with  him  at  Casa  Truschi, 
Olevano  Romano,  on  the  night  of  September  the  twenty-sec- 
ond.    Absolute  proof  of  this  exists,  and  is  in  my  hands. — L.  M.^' 

'Dolores  read  the  note  again.  Still  keeping  it  in  her  hand,  she 
sat  down  on  the  sofa  which  was  placed  opposite  to  the  Lenbach 
portrait.  On  this  sofa  she  had  sat  with  Cesare  when  he  brought 
her  home  from  Villa  Medici. 

So  the  shame  of  her  life  was  known,  and  by  a  woman  in  her 
own  world!  Who  had  told  of  it?  Her  mind  went  at  once  to 
Montebruno.  She  read  the  note  again  and  again  dully.  Then  at 
last  she  put  it  down,  carefully,  on  the  sofa  beside  her.  She  was 
trying  to  consider  it  and  her  situation,  but  her  mind  felt  heavy 
and  empty.  Perhaps  it  was  affected  by  her  body.  She  did  not 
feel  well  to-night.  That  morning,  when  she  had  got  up,  she 
had  been  conscious  of  a  faint  and  horrible  nausea,  but  of  late 
she  had  been  so  nen'ous,  so  excited  mentally,  in  such  a  condition 
of  apprehension,  unrelenting  and  perpetual,  that  she  had  given 
small  heed  to  her  body. 

Princess  Mancelli  openly  threatened  her.  Bribery,  flight, 
subterfuge,  lying;  such  had  been  her  portion  since  her  visit  to 
Olevano.  The  gutter  had  received  her.  And  now  a  sword  was 
suspended  above  her  head.  She  remembered  what  Cesare  had 
told  her  in  the  garden  at  Cadenabbia,  and  she  understood  the 
Princess  fully  at  last.  The  Princess  had  suffered  terribly,  and 
now  she  was  near  to  crying  out.  But  why  did  not  she  cry  out? 
W^hy  did  not  she  place  the  proof  of  which  she  wrote  in  the  hands 
of  Sir  Theodore?     Why  should  she  wait? 

Dolores  felt  that  there  was  a  reason.  She  even  felt  that 
it  was  an  obvious  one.  But  she  could  not  find  it.  And  now  it 
seemed  to  her  that  it  was  her  curious  physical  malaise  which 
rendered  her  stupid,  and  so  prevented  her  from  making  the 
very  simple  discovery. 


44Q  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Was  she  going  to  break  down  physically  because  of  the  cruel 
strain  she  had  been  undergoing,  a  strain  which  this  note  beside 
her  increased? 

Theo  would  be  coming  back  very  soon.  He  might  arrive 
any  day  now.     She  did  not  wish  to  be  ill  when  he  came. 

How  would  she  meet  Theo? 

Her  physical  discomfort  was  increasing.  Or,  perhaps  be- 
cause her  mind  was  so  sluggish,  she  was  able  to  be  more  con- 
scious than  usual  of  bodily  thmgs. 

"  But  what  do  they  matter?  "  she  said  to  herself,  witH  a  sort 
of  anger. 

What  is  bodily  discomfort,  when  the  mind  is  held  fast  in 
anguish?  She  looked  again  at  the  note,  but  without  taking  it 
into  her  hand. 

During  the  days  since  her  return  from  Olevano,  she  had  not 
seen  Cesare.  Directly  she  had  arrived  at  the  Palace  she  had 
written  him  a  short  note,  which  she  had  posted  herself.  It  con- 
tained these  words: 

*'  Don't  come  to  see  me,  please,  till  I  ask  you  to.  I  want 
to  be  quiet  for  a  few  days,  and  shall  not  receive  any  one.  Do 
not  answer." 

He  had  obeyed  her.  He  had  not  come,  and  he  had!  not 
replied.  She  did  not  even  know  if  he  was  in  Rome.  Probably, 
she  thought,  he  had  left  Rome,  to  make  things  safer  in  connec- 
tion with  the  tragedy  of  Olevano.  But  she  knew  if  she  did  not 
write  soon  again  he  would  come.  She  knew  the  Impetuosity  of 
his  nature. 

Among  all  her  miseries,  a  small  thing  which  troubled  her  was 
this.  She  had  lost  her  latchkey  to  the  front  door  of  the  apart- 
ment. She  had  last  seen  it  when  Cesare  had  thrust  It  into  the 
keyhole  on  the  night  of  their  return  from  Villa  Medici.  Prob- 
ably Cesare  had  it.  She  had  meant  to  ask  him  about  it,  but 
In  the  turmoil  of  events  in  the  last  days  she  had  not  remembered 
to  do  so.  Even  when  they  were  together  at  Olevano  she  had 
never  thought  of  It.  Her  mind  had  been  steadfastly  fixed  on 
one  thing,  almost  like  the  mind  of  a  maniac.  And  since  she 
had  returned  to  Rome  she  had  not  chosen  to  write  to  Cesare 
about  it.  She  had  feared  to  write  such  a  thing,  lest  her  letter 
should  fall  into  the  wrong  hands. 

As  she  now  sat  looking  down  at  the  few  words  which  held 
such  a  volume  of  meaning,  she  realized   that  they  not  only 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  44i 

suspended  a  sword  over  her  head,  but  raised  up  a  barrier  between 
herself  and  Cesare.  And  she  knew  that  she  wished  such  a 
barrier  to  be  raised  up.  She  knew  that  she  did  not  wish  to  see 
Cesare  again.  That  fact  made  her  the  more  disgusting  to  her- 
self, increased  the  heavy  burden  of  her  sin.  But  it  inspired 
her  also  with  a  desire  for  action,  and  suddenly  quickened  her 
mind. 

She  got  up,  took  the  note,  and  went  to  her  writing  table. 
Sitting  down  there,  she  wrote  at  the  top  of  the  Princess's 
paper: 

"  Received  to-day."  Then  she  hesitated.  She  was  thinking 
of  the  loss  of  that  key.  After  a  moment  she  added:  "  If  you 
have  kept  something  of  mine  by  mistake,  please  return  it." 
She  put  no  name.  But  she  did  not  try  to  disguise  her  hand- 
writing. She  thought  of  doing  so,  but  the  idea  sickened  her 
and  she  rejected  it.  She  enclosed  the  note  with  its  additions  in 
an  envelope,  addressed  it  to  Cesare  in  Rome,  sealed  the  envelope, 
and  got  up.  Her  intention  was  to  go  out  at  once  and  to  post 
it  herself.  And  she  resolved  that  this  should  be  her  last  written 
communication  with  Cesare  that  might  not  be  seen  safely  by 
all  the  world. 

Each  time  she  did  something  surreptitious  now",  It  seemed  to 
her  as  if  she  sank  down  a  little  deeper  into  the  mud.  The 
shock  that  had  recalled  her  to  her  true  self  had  given  to  her 
the  good  woman's  capacity  of  moral  suffering.  The  atmosphere 
In  which  most  women  capable  of  doing  what  she  had  done  could 
have  breathed  with  comfort  almost  suffocated  her.  Her  instinct 
was  to  fight  her  way  out  of  it.  And  now,  as  she  moved  to  go 
out  with  the  letter,  she  had  a  strange  sensation  almost  of  relief. 
The  first  thrill  of  the  nerves,  the  first  shudder  of  apprehension 
over,  was  she  not  almost  glad  that  the  Princess  knew?  The 
dullness  had  now  lifted  from  her  mind,  and  she  understood  why 
Princess  Mancelli  did  not  cr}^  out,  would  not  cry  out,  unless 
her  admonition  was  defied.  She  believed,  no  doubt,  that  to 
speak  would  be  to  separate  Dolores  from  Sir  Theodore.  And 
what  then?  Cesare  was  waiting.  Dolores  realized  that  the 
Princess  would  keep  silence,  perhaps  forever,  unless  she  were 
driven  into  action.  If  the  Princess  kncv/  that  she  was  shutting 
the  door  upon  a  past  v/hich  the  woman  v^'hom  she  thought  she 
was  punishing  already  longed  to  wipe  out!  If  she  knew  that 
she  was  helping  the  woman  she  hated !  Tlien  surely  she  would 
speak  at  once.     But  she  would  never  know. 

With  the  letter  in  her  hand,  Dolores  was  crossing  the  draw- 


442  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

ing-room  on  her  way  to  the  door,  when  she  was  overtaken  by  a 
strange  sensation  of  physical  discomfort,  this  time  accentuated. 
Her  head  swam.  All  about  her  the  room  seemed  abruptly  to 
fade.  The  outlines  of  the  furniture  grew  dim  before  her  eyes. 
The  damask-covered  walls  swayed  as  if  they  had  no  solidity, 
and  were  played  upon  by  a  wind. 

She  sank  down  on  the  sofa,  mechanically  grasping  the  letter. 
She  felt  as  if  the  only  part  of  her  body  over  which  she  had  any 
power  was  the  hand  that  held  it.  And  such  will  as  she  pos- 
sessed she  strove  to  direct  to  that  hand. 

"  Keep  hold  of  it!  Keep  hold  of  it!  "  her  mind  was  saying 
to  the  hand  as  she  let  her  head  fall  against  the  back  of  the  sofa. 
She  shut  her  eyes,  remained  still,  and  found  herself  thinking  of 
Nurse  Jennings. 

"I  want  Nurse  Jennings!     I  want  Nurse  Jennings!" 

Now  the  voice  in  her  mind  was  saying  that.  She  had  quite 
forgotten  the  hand  and  the  letter.  Her  instinct  was  going  to 
be  justified.  It  had  been  a  prophetic  instinct.  She  was  going 
to  have  some  severe  illness.  No  one  but  Nurse  Jennings  would 
be  able  to  help  her  through  it.  If  only  the  nurse  were  with  her 
now!  If  only  she  could  get  to  the  bell,  summon  Carlino,  send 
him  in  search  of  the  nurse!  Faintness  increased  upon  her. 
She  felt  herself  enveloped  by  it  as  by  a  garment.  Then  it  died 
away  —  or  fell  away  —  from  her.  The  turmoil  of  her  brain 
subsided.  She  opened  her  eyes.  They  met  the  eyes  of  the  old  man 
in  the  portrait.  She  sat  up.  She  stared  at  those  painted  eyes, 
consciously  seeking  a  message  from  the  soul  which  she  had 
always  felt  to  exist  behind  them.  Knowledge  seemed  trembling 
at  the  threshold  of  her  mind,  feeling  for  an  entrance  door  with 
hands  a  little  vague,  though  the  knowledge  itself  must  surely  be 
tremendous.  And  the  old  man  regarded  her  with  his  expression 
of  intense  and  almost  horribly  complete  intelligence.  And  his 
eyes  now  said  to  her,  "What?  You  do  not  know  your  own 
secret  ?  " 

"  My  secret  ?  "  she  thought.     "  My  secret  ?  " 

The  faint  and  sickly  sensation  crept  about  her  again.  But 
she  did  not  sink  into  the  cloud.  The  walls  did  not  sway.  The 
Outlines  of  the  things  about  her  remained  distinct.  And  she 
kept  her  eyes  on  the  eyes  of  the  old  man,  till  those  feeling  hands 
found  the  door.  It  opened.  And,  like  a  wave,  a  certainty 
entered,  flooded  her  heart  and  her  brain.  She  had  believed 
knowledge  was  at  the  door.  No,  this  was  not  knowledge,  hard 
knowledge.     Impossible  that  it  could  be  that.     It  was  the  mys- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  443 

tical  certainty  of  a  woman,  and  seemed  far  more  wonderful 
than  knowledge  to  Dolores. 

The  old  man  had  waited,  and  now  it  was  to  be!  Reward  or 
punishment!  How  would  it  come  upon  her  when  all  the  days 
were  accomplished  and  all  the  sufferings  endured  ?  How  ought^^ 
she  to  feel  ?  Did  conscience  speak  ?  Where  was  the  moral 
sense?  Was  it  active?  Was  it  searching  her  out  like  the  sur- 
geon's knife  in  a  shrinking  body? 

Magna  Peccatrix!     Magna  Peccatrix! 

She  thought  of  the  words,  but  they  seemed  to  mean  very 
little  or  nothing.  Her  own  blindness,  her  own  forgetfulness, 
now  almost  coldly  astonished  her.  But  she  had  walked  in  night- 
mare ever  since  that  shot  had  rung  out  under  the  pergola  at 
Olevano.  She  had  been  astray  in  a  world  of  abominable 
shadows.     But  what  a  reality  was  she  now  approaching! 

"  Yes,  yes,"  she  looked  at  the  old  man.  "  You  have  waited. 
You  will  not  have  to  wait  much  longer." 

She  must  have  moved  her  hand.  For  the  paper  of  the  note 
on  the  sofa  made  a  slight  noise.  And  she  remembered  what  she 
had  been  going  to  do  when  the  sensation  of  illness  overcame  her. 
She  had  been  going  to  post  a  letter  to  Cesare  Carelli. 

A  tide  of  red  went  over  her  face,  ebbed,  flowed  again.  She 
took  up  the  letter,  laid  it  in  her  lap,  looked  at  the  address. 
And  as  she  looked  she  tried  very  consciously  to  go  back,  to 
return  upon  her  steps,  to  feel  exactly  as  she  had  felt  when  she 
had  written  in  it.  But  she  could  not.  All  values  seemed  dis- 
placed. She  asked  herself  whether  now  she  could  post  that 
letter,  what  attitude  she  was  to  take  toward  Cesare,  what  was 
to  be  her  future  conduct.  She  felt  terribly  excited,  and  unable 
to  judge  properly  of  anything,  because  she  was  irretrievably  con- 
centrated on  one  tremendous  thought.  She  was  no  longer 
afraid  of  herself,  as  she  had  been  ever  since  the  episode  at 
Olevano.  It  seemed  to  her  just  then  that  she  was  unable  to  be 
either  afraid  or  unafraid.  She  said  to  herself,  "  Long  ago  I 
knew  this  would  be.  Long  ago  I  foresaw  this."  But  she  felt 
that  she  had  never  known  or  foreseen  it.  The  shock  of  sur- 
prise was  as  intense,  as  overpowering,  as  if  no  strange  and 
guiding  conviction,  no  avowed  purpose,  had  ever  led  or  moved 
her. 

Carlino  knocked  at  the  door  between  the  two  drawing-rooms. 
She  did  not  hear  him.  He  knocked  again  more  loudly,  and  then 
entered  with  something  on  a  salver.  He  came  quite  close  to 
Dolores  before  she  realized  that  any  one  was  in  the  room  with 


444  '-IHE  FRUriFUL  VINE 

her.  But  she  did  not  start.  She  only  stretched  out  a  hand  that 
was  now  very  cold,  and  took  the  telegram  he  had  brought. 
And  as  she  took  it  she  said  to  herself,  "  Theo." 

As  soon  as  Carlino  was  gone,  she  opened  the  telegram  and 
read :  "  Business  much  involved,  obliged  to  stay  on  perhaps 
three  or  four  weeks. — Theodore.'" 

Three  weeks  more  without  Theo,  without  being  obliged  to 
meet  his  bright  and  critical  eyes!  She  was  conscious  of  a  sense 
of  relief.  But  if  Theo  did  not  return,  if  it  were  known  that 
he  was  not  in  Rome,  would  not  Cesare  be  almost  sure  to  come 
to  the  palace?  She  must  go  out  and  post  that  letter.  Then 
surely  he  would  not  come.  He  would  not  dare  to  risk  bringing 
social  ruin,  domestic  ruin,  upon  her. 

It  was  getting  late.  She  postponed  the  hour  of  dinner,  put 
on  her  hat,  and  went  out  with  the  letter.  She  walked  all  the 
way  to  San  Silvestro  to  post  it,  moved  by  a  childish  fancy  that 
it  would  go  more  safely  from  there  than  from  any  smaller 
postoffice.  Then  she  took  a  fiacre,  and  ordered  the  driver  to 
go  to  an  address  in  Vicolo  Carcano  outside  Porta  Salaria. 
Nurse  Jennings  was  there  at  this  time,  attending  a  nervous  case, 
an  Italian  lady  v/hom  Dolores  knew.  The  horse,  a  thin  and 
lethargic  animal,  probably  half  starved,  went  almost  at  a  walking 
pace.  It  was  dark  night  when  they  reached  the  big  house, 
which  stood  high,  with  a  private  road  around  it.  Dolores  rang, 
and  asked  for  Nurse  Jennings,  after  inquiring  if  the  mistress  of 
the  house  were  better. 

"  Much  better,  Eccellenza.  The  nurse  is  leaving  to-mor- 
row," said  the  young  footman  with  a  smile. 

He  asked  her  to  w'alk  in,  but  she  refused,  and  remained  stand- 
ing at  the  door  while  he  went  to  fetch  the  nurse.  Since  he  had 
spoken  she  had  come  to  a  sudden  decision.  If  Nurse  Jennings 
w^ere  really  free  to-morrow,  and  had  no  other  case  in  hand,  she, 
Dolores,  would  ask  her  to  come  away  for  three  weeks,  till  Theo 
returned  from  England.  What  a  relief  ir  would  be  to  get  out 
of  Rom.e,  to  be  in  some  lovely  quiet  place  with  that  woman  of 
calm,  common  sense,  clear-eyed,  cool-brained,  capable.  Dolores' 
fear  of  Nurse  Jennings  had  left  her  since  the  event  of  that  after- 
noon. 

In  the  distance  of  a  large  and  dimly  lit  hall  she  saw  a  figure 
moving  rather  softly,  and  Vv'ith  a  certain  firmness  that  suggested 
character,  towards  her. 

"Lady  Cannynge,  is  that  you?  There  now!  What  is  the 
matter?" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  445 

The  steady  eyes  searched  Dolores'  face.  But  the  light  was 
very  dim  at  the  door. 

"  You  wouldn't  have  come  all  this  way  for  nothing,  I 
know."^ 

"  Is  it  true  that  you  are  leaving  to-morrow?  " 

"  Yes.     The  Countess   is  getting  along  splendidly  now." 

"Will  you  do  something  for  me?" 

*'  I'm  sure  I  would  be  very  glad  to.     What  is  it?  " 

She  leaned  for\vard  a  little. 

"You're  not  ill?" 

Dolores,  moved  by  a  strange  impulse,  put  her  face  close  to 
the  nurse's. 

"  Tell  me,  do  I  look  ill?     Different?  " 

"  My  goodness !  But  any  one  would  think  you  wished  me  to 
say  yes ! " 

"  I  only  want  the  truth." 

Nurse  Jennings  studied  the  face  of  Dolores  for  a  moment. 
Then  she  said : 

"  There  isn't  much  light  here  to  go  by.  But  you  don't  look 
to  me  quite  natural.     And  what  is  it  you  want  ?  " 

"  My  husband  is  in  England  for  three  weeks.  I  want  to  go 
away,  but  I  won't  go  alone.  If  you  are  free,  will  you  come 
with  me,  just  for  three  weeks?" 

She  laid  her  hand  on  the  nurse's  arm. 

"  I  want  you,  I  want  you  very  badly  to  come." 

"  I'm  glad  to  think  it,  I'm  sure  —  Lady  Cannynge." 

She  paused. 

"  Well,  I  don't  see  why  not,"  she  said.  "  It  would  be  quite 
a  treat.     And  where  should  we  go?  " 

"  I'll  think,  to-night.    You  will  come,  then?    You  promise?  " 

"  Well,  I  should  like  it.  And  I  don't  see  why  not.  But  to- 
morrow would  be  rather  quick  work,  wouldn't  it?  " 

There  was  a  faint  sound  of  caution  in  the  nurse's  voice. 

"  Let  me  come  round  and  see  you  to-morrow,  and  talk  it  over. 
And,  if  we  do  go,  we  might  start  the  next  day." 

"  Very  well.     Good-bye,  nurse." 

"  Well,  but  wait  a  minute.  Lady  Cannynge.  You  haven't 
told  me  why  you  came  here !  " 

"  I  want  you  to  come  away  with  me," 

"But  how  could  you  know  I  was  leaving  here  to-morrow? 
Didn't  the  man  tell  vou  at  the  door?  " 

"  Yes." 

"Well  then !" 


446  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  wanted  to  see  you.  I  felt  I  must  see  you.  It  doesn't 
matter  what  I  wanted.     Good  night,  nurse !  " 

She  got  into  the  fiacre  and  drove  away. 

When  she  reached  home,  and  was  eating  her  small  dinner 
with  scarcely  any  appetite,  she  considered  where  they  should 
go.  She  was  sure  that  the  nurse  would  consent  to  go  with  her. 
It  seemed  to  her  that  the  choice  she  was  about  to  make  was  very 
important.  Her  head  was  now  clear,  but  she  still  felt  unwell. 
And  a  sense  of  unrest  gnawed  her.  She  would  not  lose  It  till 
she  was  away  from  Rome.  When  dinner  was  finished  she  went 
to  the  drawing-room.  Where  should  they  go?  Capri,  Sor- 
rento, Amalfi?  No,  no.  Perugia  cam.e  before  her  mind  with 
its  soft  and  almost  tender  view,  those  long  lines  of  Umbrian 
hills  which  suggest  the  lives  of  the  saints.  And  mentally  she 
rejected  Perugia.  That  region  was  not  for  her.  She  remem- 
bered the  words  she  had  read  in  the  garden  of  Villa  Mattei,  she 
remembered  the  voices  of  the  nuns  in  the  church  of  the  Sacre 
Coeur.  And  she  dared  not  seek  at  this  moment  the  country  of 
the  saints. 

"  I  will  leave  it  till  to-morrow,"  she  thought. 

As  she  lay  awake  in  the  dark  the  conviction  which  possessed 
her  was  like  a  personality  companioning  her.  She  had  prayed 
when  Denzil  was  dying,  but  she  had  not  prayed  to-night. 
When  at  last  sleep  began  to  approach  her,  she  seemed  to  be 
again  on  the  high  terrace  at  Olevano,  to  hear  rising  up  over  the 
slopes  and  the  crested  olive  trees  the  voices  of  children,  to  see 
darting  tiny  shapes  before  her  in  an  open  space  hemmed  in  by 
houses. 

And  presently,  as  she  was  sinking  down  into  the  gulf  of 
sleep,  she  heard  the  sighing  whisper  that  had  come  to  her 
through  the  olive  trees: 

"To  give  life  —  to  hand  on  the  torch  —  to  people  the  play- 
grounds of  the  world." 


CHAPTER  XXXV 

In  the  morning  the  fever  of  desire  to  be  gone  from  Rome 
burned  more  strongly  in  Dolores.  From  moment  to  moment 
she  dreaded  the  arrival  of  Cesare.  If  he  were  in  Rome  that 
letter,  posted  the  night  before,  had  reached  him.  On  an  ordi- 
nary man  it  would  act  as  a  shackle,  keeping  him  from  Palazzo 
Barberini.     But   Cesare  was  not   an   ordinary  man  when   his 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  447 

passions  were  aroused.  She  realized  now,  in  the  light  of  morn- 
ing, that  instead  of  deterring  him  from  visiting  her,  the  Prin- 
cess's warning  might  spur  him  into  some  immediate  and  vio- 
lent action.  The  impression  made  upon  her  by  his  recklessness 
after  the  dinner  at  Villa  Medici  was  not  effaced.  He  had 
wished  that  night  to  provoke  a  scene  with  her  husband.  What 
might  he  not  wish  now?  But  he  must  follow  her  desires. 
After  what  had  occurred  he  was  bound  bj'  the  law  of  honor 
to  submit  himself  to  her  in  any  matter  affecting  her  reputation. 
She  called  in  Carlino,  and  told  him  she  was  expecting  a  visit 
from  a  lady,  the  nurse  who  often  came.  She  was  not  in  casa 
to  any  one  else.  Carlino,  looking  ^txy  serious,  quite  under- 
stood. As  he  said  so  he  fixed  upon  her  his  large  and  rather  sad 
eyes.     And  Dolores  was  uneasy.     Hastily  she  said: 

"Va  bene,  Carlino!" 

When  he  had  turned  away  she  was  conscious  of  a  sense 
of  distinct  relief.  She  had  been  overtaken  by  the  feeling  that 
she  was  transparent.  And  that  feeling  was  often  to  be  with 
her  in  the  days  that  were  at  hand. 

But  though  she  had  given  that  order  to  Carlino  she  was  not 
at  ease.  She  was  sure  Cesare  had  kept  her  latchkey.  What 
was  to  prevent  him  from  using  it?  He  ought  not  to  use  it. 
Perhaps  he  would  not  dare  to.  But  she  could  not  feel  sure  of 
anything  in  connection  with  him.  A  love  as  violent  as  his 
might  carry  him  bej^ond  all  conventions,  might  induce  him  to 
break  through  all  bonds.  If  only  Nurse  Jennings  would 
come!  As  she  sat  in  the  drawing-room  Dolores  listened  per- 
petually for  sounds  in  the  hall.  She  had  set  the  doors  that 
divided  her  from  the  hall  wide  open,  lest  she  might  be  taken  un- 
awares by  Cesare. 

To-morrow  she  would  leave  Rome,  whether  Nurse  Jennings 
came  with  her  or  not.  And  she  would  stay  away  until  her 
husband's  return.  How  she  would  meet  him  she  knew  not. 
Just  now  she  dared  not  think  of  their  meeting.  Perhaps  she 
would  find  ways  to  tutor  herself,  to  arm  herself  when  she  was 
away  from  Rome.  She  tried  to  fasten  her  faith  upon  the 
period  of  three  weeks  which  divided  her  from  the  moment  when 
she  would  have  again  to  take  up  what  would  seem  her  ordi- 
nary life.  How  she  would  strive  during  all  that  time  to  regain 
control  of  her  mind,  to  learn  to  dominate  her  heart,  and  so  to 
obtain  outward  self-confidence,  lest  the  envelope  should  betray 
the  contents  of  the  letter  it  held.  It  was  between  two  and 
three  o'clock   when    Nurse  Jennings  arrived,   looking  strong, 


448  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

healthy,  calmly  self-confident,  as  if  she  were  suckled  per- 
petually at  the  breast  of  Mother  Nature. 

As  Carlino  was  going  away  after  showing  her  in  Dolores 
reminded  him  of  her  order. 

'"  I  am  not  in  casa  for  any  one.     I  don't  care  who  it  is." 

"  Sissignora !  " 

"  You  quite  understand.'* 

"  Ma  si !  "  returned  the  child  in  a  plaintive  yoice,  and  almost 
with  an  air  of  being  offended. 

"  Grazie,  Carlino,"  said  Dolores.  "  I  know  I  can  alwaj^s 
have  confidence  in  you." 

Carlino's  face  lighted^  and  he  went  out  not  without  self- 
importance. 

"And  are  you  in  the  same  mind,  Lady  Cannynge?"  in- 
quired Nurse  Jennings,  sitting  down  opposite  to  Dolores,  and 
looking  at  her  with  very  frank  scrutiny. 

"  About  going  away  —  yes.  I  should  like  to  go  to-day.  You 
are  coming?" 

"  Well,  I  came  round  to  talk  it  over,  as  I  said  I  would  last 
night." 

"Talk  it  over!    But  will  you  com.e?'" 

She  got  up,  went  to  the  window,  did  something  to  the  curtain 
that  hung  by  it,  and  came  back. 

"Are  you  coming?     That's  what  I  want  to  know." 

"And  if  I  don't?" 

"  Then  I  shall  go  av/ay  by  m5^self  to-day.  I  shan't  wait 
till  to-morrow.     I  need  a  change  at  once." 

'*  Where  would  you  go  to  ?  " 

"  I  can't  make  up  my  mind.'* 

She  frowned. 

"  But  do  you  want  to  go  far  or  near?;"' 

"Far  — far!" 

"What,  for  only  three  weeks!'* 

"  It  needn't  be  very  far.  I  don't  mean  hundreds  and  hun- 
dreds of  miles,  of  course!" 

There  was  a  sound  of  intense  nervous  irritation  in  her  voice. 
Nurse  Jennings  scrutinized  her  more  closely,  almost  severely. 

"But  tell  me,  please,  will  you  come  or  not?  Then  I  can 
decide  where  to  go." 

"  Yes,  I  will  come.  T  shouldn't  care  for  you  to  go  oflf  all 
alone,"  said  Nurse  Jennings,  but  almost  with  coldness. 

"  Oh,  thank  you,  thank  you,  nurse  I  I  ^ —  it  would  be  so 
ghastly  to  go  all  alone." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  449 

For  an  instant  Dolores  looked  almost  happy.  She  sat 
down. 

"  Now,  where  shall  it  be  ?  " 

*'  I  must  leave  that  to  you,  of  course.  I  suppose  you  have 
some  preference." 

Dolores  was  silent  for  a  moment.  She  looked  down.  The 
nurse  watched  her  closely. 

"  I  want  it  to  be  beautiful,"  Dolores  said,  still  looking  down. 
"  And  quiet.  It  must  be  very  quiet.  I  wonder  what  is  the 
most  beautiful  place  within  reach  of  Rome." 

Nurse  Jennings  reddened  very  slightly  under  her  freckles, 
and  a  faintly  self-conscious  expression  came  Into  her  face. 
She  raised  and  depressed  her  light-colored  eyebrows  several 
times,  and  twisted  her  nose  almost  like  a  child.  Then,  clearing 
her  throat,  she  observed: 

"  How   d'you  mean  —  within   reach,   Lady   Cannynge  ?  " 

''Well,  not  more  than  twenty-four  hours  away." 

*'  I  have  heard " 

"Yes?" 

Dolores  glanced  up. 

*'  I  have  heard  —  a  patient  of  mine,  one  who  had  traveled^ 
too,  told  me  once  the  most  beautiful  spot  on  earth  was  Taor- 
mlna." 

];  In  Sicily!" 

"  lust  so.  Lady  Cannynge." 

"Did  he  really  say  that?" 

"Well,  I'm  sure!  However  should  you  know  It  was  a 
man?" 

"  I  do  know." 

Nurse  Jennings  reddened  more. 

"But  I  expect  that's  much  too  far?"  she  said.  "And  I 
daresay  you've  seen  it." 

"  No." 

"  And  it  may  be  very  hot." 

"Tell  me  —  will  you  be  very  happy  If  I  take  you  to  Taor- 
mina?     Will  you?" 

"  Well,  I  must  say  it  is  my  dream  to  get  there  —  Lady 
Cannynge." 

"  We  will  go.  We'll  start  to-morrow.  It  takes  less  than 
twenty-four  hours." 

As  she  spoke,  a  burden  seemed  for  a  moment  to  be  lifted 
from  her  heart.  Her  pale  face  brightened,  then  suddenly 
changed,  became  set,  drawn. 


'450  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"What  is  it.  Lady  Cannynge?  "Why,  whatever  is  the 
matter?" 

"  Don't  ycu  hear " 

She  got  up.     Bending  down,  she  whispered  quickly: 

**  Nurse,  I'm  going  to  my  bedroom.  If  any  one  comes  in 
now,  at  once,  say  I  can't  see  any  one.  Say  I  am  ill,  gone  to 
lie   down.     It's  true !  " 

"You  do  look " 

"Say  you're  a  nurse!  Say  that!  But  not  a  word  about 
our  going  away  to-morrow !  " 

She  left  the  room  by  way  of  the  library.  As  the  library 
door  shut  behind  her.  Nurse  Jennings  heard  a  distant  sound 
of  voices,  and  almost  immediately  Carlino  entered,  looking 
very  disturbed.     On  seeing  Nurse  Jennings  alone  he  stared. 

"What  is  it?"  said  the  nurse,  attempting  Italian  with  a 
touch  of  the  brogue. 

"Where  is  the  signora?" 

*'  She's  in  her  bedroom  lying  down.  She's  not  well.  Non 
Sta  bene!     Non  sta  bene!" 

"  There's  a  signore  who  says  he  must  speak  to  her,  a  sig- 
nora who  has  been  here  before.     I  can't  get  him  to  go  away." 

"I'll  get  him." 

(Nurse  Jennings  walked  into  the  hall,  and  found  Cesare 
Standing  there.     He  looked  at  her  with  fiery  eyes. 

"Do  you  wish  to  see  Lady  Cannynge?" 

**  If  you  please,"  he  said,  with  a  sort  of  hard  obstinacy. 

"  I'm  sorry  you  can't." 

"But " 

**  Nobody's  to.     Lady  Cannynge  is  unwell." 

"  The  servant  didn't  say  so." 

"  I  say  so.  I'm  a  nurse,  fetched  in  to  attend  to  Lady 
Cannynge." 

Cesare's  face  changed. 

"A  nurse!     She  is  ill?    What  is  it?     Is  she  very  ill?" 

*'  She  needs  complete  rest.  And  I  mean  to  take  care  she 
has  it.     That's  what  I'm  here  for." 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment.  Then  Cesare 
took  up  his  hat. 

"  I'll  write,"  he  said  in  a  very  low  voice. 

He  bowed  to  Nurse  Jennings,  opened  the  door,  and  was  gone. 


Two  days  later,  towards  noon,  Dolores  and  Nurse  Jennings, 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  451 

with  but  little  luggage,  and  no  maid,  got  cut  of  the  train 
at  Giardini  Station,  and  drove  up  the  long  hill,  by  the  Duke 
of  Bronte's  garden,  and  by  Santa  Caterina,  through  the  Mes- 
sina Gate  into  Taormina.  The  Hotel  Timeo  had  just  opened 
its  doors  after  the  summer  siesta.  They  put  up  there,  in  the 
rooms  with  a  private  terrace  over  the  smoking-room  on  the 
top  floor. 

And  Nurse  Jennings  entered  into  her  dream. 

She  had  always  had  w^hat  she  v/ould  have  called  "a  great 
liking"  for  Dolores.  But  now  Dolores  had  won  her  forever. 
Without  a  word  of  explanation,  v/ithout  an  attempt  at  forcing 
her  confidence,  Dolores  had  understood  the  way  of  her  heart, 
had  almost  eagerly  enabled  her  to  realize  a  romantic  desire. 
For  beneath  Nurse  Jennings's  sturdy  independence  there 
lurked  a  strain  of  romance.  On  the  day  when  they  came  to 
Taormina  the  two  women  drew  nearer  to  each  other.  The 
nurse  in  her  delight  did  not  fail  to  realize  the  deep  trouble 
of  her  companion,  though  she  had  not  been  enlightened  fur- 
ther as  to  its  cause.  And  Dolores,  in  her  strange,  and  now 
very  still,  sadness,  sympathized  with  the  other's  joy. 

When  the  streak  of  blue  sea  divided  her  from  Italy  she  was 
conscious  of  a  great  change  in  her  feelings.  She  passed  into 
a  region  devoid  of  events,  except  of  those  which  occur  in  the 
heart  and  imagination.  No  one  knew  where  she  had  gone. 
She  had  said  at  the  palace  that  she  would  send  her  address 
when  she  v/anted  her  letters.  Cesare  had  not  written  yet. 
Theo  did  not  know  of  her  departure  from  Rome.  A  sense  of 
freedom  encompassed  her.  She  was  liberated  for  the  moment 
from  the  prison  of  action  and  let  loose  in  the  imm.ensity  of 
thought.  It  seemed  to  her,  just  at  first,  that  she  sank  into 
rest.  Horrors  dropped  away  in  this  world  of  beauty.  The 
serpent  gave  no  sign  of  its  presence  in  this  Eden.  The  still- 
ness of  sorrow  was  almost  like  joy  because  it  was  still.  The 
garden  of  Villa  Medici,  the  terrace  of  Olevano  Romano  —  they 
were  in  a  far  country,  where  people  loved  greatly  and  greatly 
suffered,  where  they  were  driven  by  the  Furies,  where  they 
were  the  prey  of  Life  that  was  a  devouring  beast  forever  unap- 
peased.  But,  here,  far  countries  sank  away  into  legend,  and, 
here,  the  Furies  profoundly  slept,  under  shadows  cast  over 
them  by  roses  in  a  region  of  dreaming  blue. 

On  the  day  after  their  arrival,  despite  the  heat,  Nurse  Jen- 
nings started  out  verj^  early  in  the  morning  to  "  look  about 
her."     She  returned  at  half-past  twelve  in  a  state  of  enthu- 


452  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

siasm.  She  had  been  to  the  Greek  Theater,  had  visited  the 
antiquity  shops  and  the  Badia  Vecchia,  "  The  Piazza,"  the 
garden  of  San  Domenico.  She  had  even  been  on  donkey-back 
up  to  the  ridge  between  Mola  and  the  Castello. 

"  And  I've  found  a  place  for  you.  Lady  Cannynge,"  she  ex- 
claimed, as  they  prepared  to  go  down  to  lunch. 

"  I  shall  be  satisfied  with  the  theater  and  the  terrace  here." 

"  But  if  you  ever  want  to  be  hidden  away  from  every  one." 

"What  have  you  found?" 

"  I'll  show  you  this  evening  after  tea,  when  you're  quite 
rested,  and  it's  not  so  hot.  My  freckles  will  be  worse  than 
ever  to-morrow,  I  expect.     But  who  cares  ?  " 

"  There  is  nobody  here  who  is  likely  to  criticize  us." 

"Oh,  I  don't  know  about  that!  You  never  saw  anything 
like  the  eyes  all  down  the  main  street  I  " 

"  I  don't  think  I  shall  mind  those  eyes." 

That  evening  Nurse  Jennings,  true  to  her  promise,  took 
Dolores  to  a  mountain  garden,  hidden  away  in  a  cleft  of  the 
hills  to  the  right  of  the  path  to  Mola.  It  was  not  large,  and 
was  constructed  in  terraces,  the  last  and  longest  of  which  was 
divided  by  a  rail  overgrown  with  roses  from  the  stony  bottom 
of  a  gully.  Orange  and  fig  trees,  pepper  trees,  the  eucalyptus 
and  the  almond  tree,  gave  to  it  their  shade.  On  the  lowest 
terrace  a  fountain  played  in  front  of  a  rose-covered  arbor. 
And  nestled  under  a  great  gray  stone  wall  above  was  an  open 
pavilion,  with  a  sloping  red  roof  and  brick  columns,  facing  a 
far-off  view  of  the  sea  and  the  magical  coasts  of  Calabria. 
Round  the  sides  of  this  pavilion  ran  a  bed  from  which  masses 
of  wild  maidenhair  ferns  lifted  their  fairylike  heads.  Roses 
clung  round  the  columns.  Roses  and  harba  di  Giove  streamed 
over  the  roof.  Steeply,  on  the  far  side  of  the  gully,  rose  the 
uncultivated  mountain  side,  covered  with  cactus,  and  with  grass 
now  seared  by  the  heat  of  summer.  An  old  aqueduct  closed 
in  the  garden  where  the  gully  narrowed.  In  front,  long  slopes 
covered  with  olive  and  almond  trees,  with  vines,  and  with 
fruit  trees,  led  gradually  down  to  far-away  bushes  of  wild 
oleander,  that  nodded  over  the  clear  crystal  depths  of  a  sea 
all  silver  shot  with  pale  blue  where  the  rocks  protected  it, 
and  where  it  slept  by  the  shallow  shore.  And  above,  in  the 
quivering  sky,  like  a  thing  disdainful  of  earth  yet  bound  for 
a  time  to  earth's  topmost  peak,  Mola  soared  toward  the  sun. 

For  the  sun  had  not  j^et  departed,  though  already  the  light 
of  evening  lay  over  the  little  garden. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  453 

Only  the  Sicilian  gardener  was  there.  He  welcomed  the 
two  strangers  with  a  hospitable  smile,  and  assured  Dolores 
that  his  absent  padrone  would  be  willing  for  them  to  enjoy 
the  garden.  He  led  them  with  pride  to  the  pavilion,  brought 
them  comfortable  basket  chairs,  promised  them  that  the  fountain 
should  always  be  set  playing  when  they  were  there,  and  then 
disappeared  to  a  hidden  terrace,  leaving  them  to  watch  the 
coming  of  twilight  over  the  sea. 

"Well,  what  do  you  say  now,  Lady  Cannynge?"  asked 
Nurse  Jennings,  with  the  air  of  a  discoverer. 

"  I  have  nothing  to  say,"  said  Dolores. 

She  could  just  hear  the  whisper  of  the  fountain. 

"  But  I  know  I  shall  come  here  every  day,"  she  added. 

"  I  would !  "  said  the  nurse.  "  Do  you  know,  I  think  my 
fr  —  my  patient  that  I  told  you  of  was  quite  right." 

"Yes,  he  was." 

On  that  first  day  how  profoundly  the  Furies  slept  I 

The  visit  of  Cesare  to  Palazzo  Barberini  had  not  been  dis- 
cussed between  the  two  women.  Nurse  Jennings  had  simply 
told  Dolores  that  an  Italian  gentleman  had  wanted  to  see 
her,  that  he  had  been  made  to  understand  it  was  impossible, 
and  that  he  had  gone  away.     He  had  said  he  would  write. 

His  letter  must  surely  be  lying  now  on  a  table  In  Rome. 

As  the  first  freshness  of  the  changed  mode  of  life  faded, 
Dolores  could  not  put  the  thought  of  that  letter  away  from 
her  mind.  It  seemed  to  link  two  lands,  two  lives.  She  had 
written  to  Theo  in  England,  explaining  her  sudden  Heparture 
on  the  ground  of  health,  and  of  a  desire  to  fill  up  her  time 
pleasantly  while  he  was  away.  But  she  had  not  had  the 
courage  to  write  to  Rome  to  give  her  address.  Each  day  she 
resolved  to  write.  Each  day  she  put  ofE  the  task.  More  than 
a  week  had  gone  by.  And  she  had  not  written.  Then  there 
came  a  telegram  from  Theo  In  London. 

"  Stay  on  Taormina  I  will  come  over  and  fetch  you  HacL** 

The  message  revived  in  Dolores  the  intention  she  Had  formed 
in  Rome,  to  spend  the  weeks  of  her  husband's  absence  in 
a  strict  preparation  for  her  meeting  with  him  v/hen  he  re- 
turned. She  was  to  find  ways  to  tutor  herself,  to  arm  her- 
self. More  than  a  week  was  already  gone,  and  what  had  she 
done?  She  had  been  sunk  in  a  strange  lethargy,  the  victim  of 
reaction.  She  took  the  telegram  with  her  to  the  pavilion  in 
the  garden.     Nurse  Jennings  was  walking  In  the  hills. 


454  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Since  Dolores  had  been  in  Sicily,  she  had  been  feeling  better 
physically,  but  the  mystic  certainty  had  never  left  her  for  a 
moment.  Now  and  then,  when  she  had  met  the  clear  gaze 
of  Nurse  Jennings,  she  had  wondered  whether  the  nurse  was 
guided  by  any  instinct  to  a  suspicion  of  her  conviction.  She 
could  not  decide.  And  now  was  not  she  armed  against  the 
nurse?  For  she  knew  the  way  of  her  heart.  That  little 
fact  gave  to  Dolores  sometimes  an  odd  feeling  of  safety  when 
the  nurse's  eyes  held  a  searching  expression. 

Nicola,  the  kind  gardener,  hastened  to  the  lower  terrace 
to  set  the  little  fountain  playing,  and  Dolores  went  into  the 
pavilion  and  sat  down  on  a  chaise  longue.  She  rested  her 
feet  against  the  bar  of  the  chair.  The  high  back  supported 
her  head.  Almost  directly  she  heard  the  whisper  of  the  foun- 
tain beginning.  Through  the  rose-covered  columns  she  looked 
at  the  distant  sea,  at  more  distant  Italy. 

Theo's  telegram  lay  on  her  lap. 

A  white  sail  appeared  on  the  sea,  the  only  speck  that  broke 
the  flawlessness  of  the  blue.  Imperceptibly  it  moved,  going 
from  the  straits,  where  a  city  lay  dead  in  the  deep  blue  dis- 
tance. Was  it  voyaging  to  the  Fortunate  Isles?  As  Dolores 
watched  it,  an  intense  yearning,  an  aching  desire,  stole  through 
all  her  being.  That  little  white  sail,  she  knev/  not  why,  made 
her  long  to  be  happy,  just  to  be  happy  and  at  peace,  to  be 
understood,  to  be  cherished  because  she  was  understood.  She 
felt  that  she  was  traveling,  like  that  sail.  She  knew  not  the 
length  of  the  journey.  Di  doman  no  ce  certezza.  She  had 
been  in  tempest  and  night,  black  night.  And  now  whither  was 
she  going?     To  what  port  was  she  shaping  her  course? 

She  longed  almost  desperately  to  tell  some  one  all  the  truth 
of  what  she  had  done.  And  suddenly  memory  placed  before 
her  a  man,  a  priest,  whom  she  had  once  seen  for  a  moment, 
whom  she  had  scarcely  then  been  aware  that  she  saw.  He 
had  stood  en  the  Pincio  looking  towards  St.  Peter's  on  the 
day  when  she  had  spoken  frankly  to  Lady  Sarah.  His  lips 
had  moved,  perhaps  in  a  prayer.  If  he  were  in  Taormina 
she  might  perhaps  make  her  confession  to  him.  It  seemed 
to  her  that  she  would  never  be  able  to  feel  cleaner,  till  she  had 
told  the  truth  to  some  one. 

Theo's  telegram  had  made  her  keenly  alive  again.  The  ne- 
cessity to  arm  herself  frightened  her.  She  saw  fierce  mental 
effort  in  front  of  her.     She  must  prepare  herself  for  hypocrisy. 

And  that  little  sail  was  so  white!  Was  that  why  it  v/as 
permitted  to  voyage  through  the  flawless  blue? 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  455 

Qui  San  F Hippo  Neri  discorreva  coi  suoi  discepoli  delle  cose 
di  Dio.  The  things  of  God.  The  fingers  of  Dolores  closed 
convulsively  on  the  paper  in  her  lap,  and  the  telegram  was 
torn.  She  threw  it  down  on  the  pavement  of  the  pavilion. 
And  as  she  did  so,  she  was  overtaken  once  more  by  the  peculiar 
feeling  of  faintness  which  had  assailed  her  in  Rome.  And  the 
white  sail  vanished  for  a  moment  quivering  from  before  her 
eves. 
'"Cooee!" 

A  sturdy  w^oman's  voice,  full  and  cheerful,  dropped  down 
to  her  from  somewhere  above.  She  did  not  answer.  The  cry 
came  again  twice.  But  she  shut  her  eyes  and  lay  perfectly 
still.     Presently  she  heard  steps,  then  again  a  voice. 

"Lady  Cann3-nge!     Didn't  you  hear  me?" 

She  opened  her  eyes.  Nurse  Jennings,  her  hands  full  of 
mysterious  green  plants  that  she  had  picked  in  the  hills,  was 
standing  between  the  columns  looking  in  at  her. 

"  Yes,"  Dolores  said,  with  some  difficulty. 

"And  you  wouldn't  answer?  Would  you  rather  be  alone, 
perhaps?     Shall  I  leave  you  in  quiet?" 

"No,  don't  — don't!" 

"  What  is  it  ?  "  The  nurse  stepped  in.  "  How  yellow  and 
drawn  you  look!  " 

She  laid  down  the  plants  on  a  little  straw  table  that  stood 
by   Dolores'  chair. 

"Lady  Cannynge,  is  there  anything  wrong  with  you?  But 
I  know  there  is.  Wouldn't  you  like  to  tell  it  to  me?  It 
might  ease  you." 

She  did  not  disclaim  curiosity,  but  if  she  had  any,  Dolores 
knew  it  was  the  affectionate  curiosity  of  the  heart,  which  is  the 
tribute  of  a  warm  and  disinterested  feeling. 

"  I  am  all  for  you,"  she  continued.  "  And  I'm  sure  you 
feel  that.  Dying  for  people  is  nonsense,  and  I  don't  believe  in 
nonsense.     But  after  what  you've  done " 

"What  I've  done!"  said  Dolores. 

She  moved,  sitting  straight  up  in  the  chaise  longue. 

"  Bringing  me  to  Taormina,  I  mean !  " 

«  Oh  — yes." 

"  I  shall  always  be  glad  to  do  my  best  for  you  —  in  any 
way." 

Dolores  was  silent  for  a  minute.     Then  she  said: 

"  Nurse,  do  sit  down.     Sit  close  to  me." 

"  Whv  not?"  returned  Nurse  Jennings,  drawing  up  a  chair. 

She  took  a  hand  of  Dolores  in  hers,  and  calmly  held  it. 


456  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  don't  feel  very  well.  I  think  my  nerves  are  all  wrong. 
And  besides ' 

"  What  is  it  ?  If  you  say  exactly,  I  daresay  I  can  very  soon 
tell " 

"  No.     I  want  you  to  tell  me  something." 

"Me!" 

"  That  friend  who  told  you  about  Taormina!  " 

"Well,  I  never!" 

"Where  is  he  now?" 

'*  In   England,   I   believe.'* 

"Don't  you  know?" 

"Well,  he  is  in  England." 

"I  wonder " 

"Whatever  do  j'ou  wonder?'* 

"  I  wonder  if  you  will!  " 
■      "Oh  — Lady  Cannynge!" 

"  I  should  like  you  to  be  happy,  how  I  should  like  that! " 

"You  are  good!" 

"  No." 

"  But  why  do  you  want  me  to  be  happy?  In  such  a  special 
sort  of  a  way,  I  mean  ?  " 

"  I  think  it's  because  I'm  so  unhappy," 

"Are  you?" 

"  Very,  very  unhappy." 

"  Is  it  always  what  you  told  me  ?  " 

"  No "  Dolores  looked  at  the  white  sail.     "  It's  much 

more  than  that  now." 

She  shut  her  eyes.  Nurse  Jennings'  face  changed.  It  had 
been  emotional.  It  became  suddenly  professional.  She  leaned 
over  Dolores. 

"  Tell  me  what  you're  feeling  like,"  she  said.  "  Tell  me 
exactly." 

Dolores  told  her.     There  was  a  long  silence. 

The  nurse  made  no  comment  on  what  Dolores  had  told  her. 

Dolores  asked  her  for  no  opinion. 

At  last  Dolores  said: 

"  To-day,  when  you  were  out,  I  got  a  telegram  from  my  hus- 
band. When  he  leaves  England  he  is  coming  here  to  take  me 
back  to  Rome." 

"  Shall  you  wish  me  to  go  when  he  comes?  " 

"  I  don't  think  so.  I  want  you  near  me.  And  I  shall 
"want  you  much  more  presently." 

She  was  silent. 


THE  FRUITFUL  yiNE  457 

"You'll  like  my  husband  when  you  really  know  him,"  she 
added  after  a  moment. 

"I  don't  know  that!" 

"  He's  always  nice  to  everybody." 

"  Except  you,  by  what  you've  told  me." 

"  I  feel  perhaps  I  ought  never  to  have  told  you.  But  I 
couldn't  help  it." 

"  And  why  do  you  help  it  now?  " 

"  Nobody  could  ever  understand." 

"  I  don't  know  about  understanding.     But  I  think  I  know."" 

"What?" 

"  Well  —  the  gentleman  you  sent  me  to  speak  to  in  the  hall  I 
When  he  gave  me  a  look,  by  that,  and  the  way  you  went  out 
of  the  drawing-room,  I  knew  a  good  deal,  I  think." 

*'  I  don't  want  to  see  him  again.  I  don't  want  ever  to  see 
him  again.  And  that  very  thing,  my  not  wanting  to,  is  wicked- 
ness now,  after  what  I  have  done.  And  now  my  husband  is 
coming  here.     And  —  and  when  I  have  to  tell  him " 

She  broke  off. 

"  You  mean  to  tell  him,  then !  "  said  Nurse  Jennings,  quite 
simply,  apparently  neither  rejecting  Dolores  as  a  sinner,  nor 
accepting  her  as  a  moral  problem. 

"  I  shall  have  to  —  at  last.     How  can  I  help  telling  him?  "■ 

"But  —  what  do  you  mean?" 

"  I  shall  have  to  tell  him  about  —  about  the  child.  And! 
then  —  nurse,  can  you  help  me?     Can  any  one  help  me?" 

Suddenly  she  broke  down,  and  completely.  Nurse  Jennings 
went  quickly  to  Nicola,  and  begged  him  go  on  an  errand  to 
the  town.  Then  she  returned  to  the  pavilion.  Before  the 
two  women  went  back  to  the  hotel  she  knew  the  truth  of  the 
episode  at  Olevano. 


CHAPTER  XXXVI 

After  that  day  Dolores  felt  a  certain  sense  of  relief,  but  not 
because  of  anything  Nurse  Jennings  had  said  to  her.  The  re- 
lief came  from  the  fact  that  she  no  longer  bore  the  burden  of 
her  secret  uncompanioned.  Cesare  did  not  know  it,  but  only  a 
part  of  it.  Nurse  Jennings  of  course  had  spoken  words  in 
accord  with  her  character.  She  had  stated  certain  facts.  And 
facts  had  gone  over  the  spirit  of  Dolores  as  a  traveling  wind 
goes  over  grass,  leaving  it  just  as  it  was  when  the  world  was 


458  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

still.  Nurse  Jennings  soon  saw  that,  and  did  not  attempt 
any  further  combat  against  the  conviction  of  Dolores.  She 
had  had  patients  with  fixed  ideas  before,  and  knew  how  diffi- 
cult it  was  to  "  shift "  such  ideas.  And,  perhaps,  though  she 
did  not  show  it  then,  Dolores'  belief  had  made  some  impression 
upon  her. 

The  natures  of  the  two  women  were  very  dissimilar,  and 
in  that  dissimilarity  Dolores  had  found  the  path  which  sustained 
her  feet  as  she  went  to  confession.  Once  the  confession  was 
finished,  and  Nurse  Jennings  had  "  had  her  say,"  on  what  she 
picked  out  at  the  moment  as  the  main  fact  of  importance,  Do- 
lores and  she  seemed  to  fall  back  into  their  habitual  relations. 
Dolores  did  not  treat  her  as  penitent  treats  priest.  And  Nurse 
Jennings  did  not  express  any  opinion  on  the  moral  question  in- 
volved. That  lack  of  expression  gave  to  Dolores  a  deeper  con- 
fidence in  the  nurse.  She  needed  neither  condemnation  nor 
absolution  from  any  human  being  just  then.  What  she  needed 
was  acceptance,  to  be  accepted  with  in  her  hand  the  gift  of  her 
sincerity.  She  knew  the  nurse  accepted  her.  And  often  she 
remembered  the  simple  words,  "  I  am  all  for  you." 

It  was  perhaps  that  scene  in  the  pavilion  which  nerved 
Dolores  to  write  to  the  Palazzo  Barberini,  asking  that  any 
letters  should  be  forwarded,  but  forbidding  the  servants  to 
give  her  address  to  any  one.  Italian  and  Sicilian  posts  are 
slow.  Four  days  elapsed  before  she  had  any  reply.  Then  a 
packet  arrived.  She  undid  it  quickly,  and  at  once  saw  three 
letters  in  Cesare's  handwriting.  There  was  also  a  letter  from 
Theo,  written  before  he  knew  she  had  gone  to  Sicily.  She 
read  Theo's  letter  first.  How  calm  it  seemed!  She  felt  ab- 
surdly as  if  his  complete  ignorance  of  all  that  she  knew  was 
unnatural,  as  if  he  had  sunk  into  childishness.  But  how  could 
he  know? 

He  mentioned  the  house  In  Lancaster  Gate,  and  took  her 
back  to  the  bedroom  in  Palazzo  Barberini.  As  long  as  she 
lived  could  she  ever  forget  that  house  in  Lancaster  Gate,  and 
its  effect  upon  her  destiny? 

So  —  that  was  Theo! 

A  sensation  of  sad  irony  possessed  her  soul  as  she  laid  his  let- 
ter down.  She  sat  looking  at  the  three  unopened  letters  of  Cesare. 
If  she  had  done  what  she  wished  to  do  at  that  moment,  she 
would  have  destroyed  them  unopened,  passing  a  sponge  over  the 
slate  on  which  terrible  words  were  written.  She  did  not  want 
to  face  the  truth  that  she  had  conjured  up.     She  was  a  coward. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  459 

and  worse  than  a  coward.  For  she  had  done  the  unforgivable 
thing.  She  had  used  love  without  returning  it.  And  she  saw 
Cesare  now  as  a  victim  rather  than  lover.  But  at  last  she 
opened  one  of  his  letters.  She  read  it  quickly  and  put  it  down. 
Then  she  opened  the  second. 

She  was  sitting  on  the  high  terrace  before  her  bedroom  win- 
dow. It  was  about  three  o'clock  in  the  afternoon.  The  heat 
was  great.  But  the  sky  was  gray.  Etna  looked  peculiarly 
volcanic  under  that  gray  sky,  with  a  waveless,  gray  sea  at  its 
foot.  No  smoke  v/as  visible  streaming  out  of  the  crater.  And 
to-day  the  absence  of  smoke  suggested  danger  to  Dolores.  The 
monster  seemed  to  brood,  v.nth  carefully  covered  fires,  medi- 
tating som.e  dreadful  deed.  And  Sicily  lay  around  it  like  a  land 
stricken  with  fear,  its  radiant  beauty  vanished. 

She  read  the  second  letter  and  the  third.  Then  she  sat  back 
and  looked  at  Etna. 

Despite  her  knowledge  of  the  volcano's  terrific  powers,  since 
she  had  read  Cesare's  letters  she  felt  as  if  the  power  in  a  fully 
awakened  human  soul  made  all  other  forces  seem  negligible. 

How  had  she  ever  dared  to  use  the  feeling  in  a  human  soul 
as  she  had  used  Cesare's? 

She  deserved  that  he  should  punish  her.  Would  he  punisK 
her  in  spite  of  all  she  could  do  ?  The  terrible  thing  was  that  in 
his  sincerity  he  persistently  assumed  hers.  He  took  it  for 
granted  that  she  loved  him. 

His  first  letter  was  short,  and  expressed  anxiety  about  her 
health,  begged  for  an  interview  directly  she  was  able  to  see  any 
one,  and  in  a  veiled  manner  indicated  that  it  was  essential 
the  interview  should  not  be  long  delayed.  She  understood 
that  in  this  letter  Cesare  had  tried  to  govern  himself,  to  attain 
the  discretion  she  would  wish  for,  to  sink  the  passionate  lover 
in  the  man  of  the  world. 

The  second  letter  was  longer  and  much  less  prudent.  Al- 
most violently  he  asked  why  there  had  been  no  reply  to  his 
first  letter.  He  wrote  that  he  must  see  her,  and  that  unless 
he  received  an  answer  of  some  kind  —  a  word  only  if  she  were 
really  unwell  —  he  should  come  again  to  the  palace.  He  fixed 
the  time  of  his  delay  at  twenty-four  hours. 

And  then  there  was  the  third  letter,  written,  after  another 
visit  at  the  palace,  and  his  discovery  of  her  departure  without 
leaving  any  address. 

Dolores  sat  looking  at  Etna,  and  feeling  as  if  that  third 
letter  had  scorched  her  like  a  flame  from  its  molten  breast. 


46o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

There  was  something  ungovernable  in  Cesare.  She  had  been 
aware  of  it  more  than  once;  terribly  aware  of  it  on  the  night 
when  he  had  taken  her  back  to  the  apartment  while  Sir  Theo- 
dore slept.  But  never  —  not  even  then  —  had  she  realized  it 
as  she  did  at  this  moment.  His  passion  might  pass  away. 
She  had  heard  people  say  of  the  Italian  character  that  it  was 
full  of  heat,  but  of  heat  that  was  not  lasting.  She  did  not  know 
whether  this  was  true.  But  she  knew  that  she  had  aroused 
an  intensity  which,  though  it  might  die  away,  might  cause 
destruction  before  it  died.  She  felt  the  fixed  attention  of  a 
heart  concentrated  upon  her.  And  it  was  like  an  eye  that 
would  never  be  weary  of  watching.     It  began  to  terrify  her. 

The  third  letter  had  evidently  been  written  in  a  mood  of 
red-hot  excitement.  A  bitter  sense  of  injury  flamed  out  of  it. 
But  still  the  man  who  had  written  it  believed  in  the  woman's 
love.  It  was  incredible  to  Cesare  that  Dolores  could  have  done 
what  she  had  done  under  any  influence  save  that  of  passion. 
But  evidently  he  suspected  a  sharp  reaction  of  fear,  a  creeping 
palsy  of  prudence.  Evidently  he  thought  he  detected  great 
danger  to  his  love  in  this  reaction.  And  he  fought  against  this 
supposed  danger  with  an  energy  that  was  fierce.  Almost  as 
his  touch,  his  kiss,  had  spoken  to  her  in  the  garden  of  Villa 
Medici  did  his  written  words  speak  to  her  now.  But  how  dif- 
ferent was  her  response! 

In  Villa  Medici  she  had  nearly  been  carried  away  by  the 
intensity  of  his  desire.  In  that  moment  when  he  had  seemed 
all,  she  nothing,  she  had  known  how  the  desire  to  be  needed 
sometimes  betrays  good  women. 

But  there  was  a  gulf  fixed  between  that  woman  and  the 
woman  now  sitting  on  the  terrace  at  Taormina. 

And  never  would  Cesare  bridge  it. 

There  was,  as  he  suspected,  reaction.  'But  it  was  reaction 
which  had  carried  a  nature  back  to  its  own  essential  truth. 

And  Cesare  did  not  know  the  strange  and  mystical  convic- 
tion which,  almost  like  that  gray  sea  down  there,  waveless  at 
Etna's  foot,  enveloped  the  soul  of  Dolores,  changing  it,  giving 
to  Its  course  a  new  direction,  towards  the  region  of  unknown 
fate.  Even  now.  In  her  terror  of  what  Cesare  was,  of  what 
he  might  do,  she  felt  herself  to  be  a  woman  apart.  For  out  of 
the  sin,  the  terror,  the  sordidness,  must  arise  a  flower  white  with 
innocence. 

And  suddenly  there  came  to  her  the  thought,  "  Possibly 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  461 

this  child  had  to  be  born,  not  for  me,  not  for  Theo,  not  for 
Cesare,  but  for  the  world ! " 

It  was  a  thought  perhaps  fantastic,  progeny  of  a  dreaming 
woman  carried  on  in  the  bark  that  no  man  can  ever  enter,  the 
bark  of  the  white  sails  that  are  set  towards  the  flawless  blue. 
But  it  was  a  thought  that  henceforth  was  never  quite  to  die  in 
the  mind  of  Dolores.  And  ft  was  a  thought  that  lifted  her. 
In  the  moment  of  its  becoming,  above  both  her  sense  of  sin  and 
her  sense  of  fear. 

But  the  gray  lay  above  Etn^^  and  the  gray  slept  at  its  foot. 
And  she  returned  Into  fear. 

iWhat  must  she  do  before  she  went  back  with  Theo  to  Rome  ? 
'How  was  she  to  govern  the  nature  she  had  roused,  to  tread 
down  Into  the  earth  the  armed  man  born  of  the  dragon's  tooth 
she  had  sown  ? 

Nurse  Jennings,  whose  bedroom  Opened  on  to  the  terrace 
where  Dolores  was  sitting,  was  enjoying  a  siesta.  A  very 
strong  and  active  woman,  and  now  taking  an  unexpected  holi- 
day, she  was  up  early  In  the  morning  and,  unwearied  In  sight- 
seeing, made  expeditions  each  day,  but  always  returned  to  the 
hotel  to  lunch  with  Dolores,  who  spent  her  mornings  quietly, 
sitting  with  a  book  In  the  Greek  theater,  or  on  the  lower  ter- 
race of  the  Timeo,  under  the  palm  trees.  Presently  Dolores 
got  up  and  went  to  the  window  of  the  nurse's  room.  The 
white  mosquito  net  was  closely  drawn  about  the  bed.  Dolores 
stood  In  the  aperture  of  the  window,  and  softly  said: 

"Nurse!" 

There  was  no  reply. 

"  Nurse !    Are  you  awake?  '* 

"  What  ?  "  said  a  muffled  voice. 

There  was  a  movement  on  the  bed. 

**  Did  some  one  speak?  "  said  the  voice,  still  drowsily. 

Dolores  stepped  Into  the  room... 

"Don't  move!  Don't  undraw  the  net.  I'll  sit  down  out- 
side.    I  want  to  speak  to  you." 

"  It's  you.  Lady  Cannynge !  I  don^t  know  what's  come  to 
me  to-day.     I  feel  quite  heavy  with  sleep." 

"  It's  only  the  scirocco.  Lie  still,  and  let  ms  sit  here  for  a 
little.     The  post  has  come,  and  I've  had  some  letters." 

"  Letters!     Are  there  any  for  me?  " 

"  No." 

"Well,  d'you  know  I'm  glad?     I  don't  seem  to  want  any 


i|62  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

letters  and  such  things  here.  But  yours!  I  hope  they're  nice 
ones?" 

She  moved  again  and  put  her  hand  to  the  net. 

"  Nurse,  please  don't  draw  back  the  net.  I'd  rather  you 
aidn't." 

Nurse  Jennings  lay  still. 

*'  Just  as  you  like,  Lady  Cannynge,"  she  said. 

[Now  her  voice  was  quite  wide  awake. 

"I've  had  some  letters  that  have  —  they've  made  me  very 
anxious.  They've  frightened  me.  I  don't  know  what  to  do 
about  them," 

"  I'm  sorry.  But  it's  always  a  mistake  to  be  frightened.  It's 
that  brings  things  about." 

"  Brings  things  about?  " 

"  Brings  things  on  to  people,  I  believe.  I've  noticed  it  often 
with  patients.  Be  afraid  of  some  particular  illness,  or  some  par- 
ticular operation,  and  as  often  as  not  it  comes  on  you." 

"  I  don't  think  I  believe  in  all  that." 

"  Well !  I  thought  you  were  more  inclined  to  it  than  I 
am!" 

"  Once  perhaps  I  was.  But  I  tried  to  bring  something 
about  by  thinking,  desiring,  and  it  didn't  happen.  I  don't 
think  we  can  do  very  much  for  ourselves,  even  against  our- 
selves." 

**  Can  I  help  you  about  those  letters?  " 

"  iYou're  the  only  person  in  the  world  that  can,  I  think." 

"  I'll  do  my  best.     You  may  depend  on  that." 

"  You  can  do  nothing  here.  But  v/hen  my  husband  comes, 
and  we  go  back  to  Rome,  I  think  perhaps  you  might." 

She  drew  her  chair  a  little  farther  away  from  the  mosquito 
net. 

"  iWhen  we  get  to  Rome,  do  you  think  you  could  go  and  see 
some  one  for  me?  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  not." 

*'  It's  —  it  would  be  the  person  who  came  to  visit  me  when 
you  were  with  me  the  other  day." 

"  Yes." 

Dolores  was  silent.  She  did  not  know  how  to  go  on.  Al- 
though she  had  told  Nurse  Jennings  much,  she  had  not  told  her 
everything.  But  if  the  nurse  were  going  to  help  her,  must  she 
not  tell  everything? 

"  I  have  had  some  letters  from  him,"  she  said  at  length. 
*'  iHe   doesn't   understand  —  things.     And    I'm   afraid,    unless 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  463 

something  Is  done,  he  might  do  me  a  great  deal  of  harm.  I'm 
afraid  he  might  ruin  my  life  utterly." 

"  He  sha'n't  do  that,"  said  the  voice  behind  the  mosquito  cur- 
tain with  great  decision.     "  Not  if  I  can  stop  him  at  any  rate!  " 

"I  —  I  don't  mean  my  social  life,"  Dolores  continued.  "  I 
don't  really  care  about  that.  What  I  mean  is  my  life  with 
my  husband." 

"Ah!" 

"  I  suppose  —  I  daresay  any  one  might  think,  after  what  has 
happened,  that  my  life  with  my  husband  must  mean  very  little 
to  me.  That  isn't  so.  It  means  everything.  And  it's  that  — 
I  know  quite  well " 

She  stopped.  The  trying  to  speak  the  plain  truth  brought  its 
horrible  meaning  home  to  her  with  a  clearness  that  hurt  her 
like  too  fierce  light.  She  felt  as  if  she  could  not  put  that 
truth  into  words  even  to  Nurse  Jennings.  And  perhaps, 
since  that  conversation  after  dinner  in  Palazzo  Barberini,  the 
nurse  understood  everything,  even  what  had  not  been  plainly 
told. 

"  Nurse,"  she  began  again,  "  the  person  I  want  you  to  see 
thinks  me  better  than  I  am.  He  doesn't  understand  at  all  how 
bad  I  am.  I  want  you  to  make  him  understand.  He  —  he 
thinks  I  love  him.  That  would  have  been  some  excuse  for 
me,"  her  voice  became  lower;  "I  want  him  —  I  feel  he  must 
know  that  —  that  I  hadn't  that  excuse.  When  he  knows  that, 
I  think  he  will  hate  me.  I  am  sure  he  must.  I  suppose  I  am 
hateful." 

*''  Don't  say  that." 

*'  Perhaps  since  I  spoke  to  you  that  night  In  Palazzo  Bar- 
berini you  understand  a  little  — - 1  don't  know.  Perhaps  no 
one  ever  could.  I  don't  know  —  now  whether  I  can  under- 
stand. But  it's  done.  Only  —  only  If  my  husband  should 
ever  know,  I  don't  feel  I  could  live  any  longer.  He  thinks  I 
am  a  good  woman." 

Suddenly  she  got  up  and  went  to  the  window. 

"  Oh !  I  don't  know  how  I  can  see  him  again !  "  she  ex- 
claimed.    "  I  dread  his  coming." 

Nurse  Jennings  thrust  aside  the  mosquito  net  and  emerged 
Into  the  room,  with  her  red  hair  in  disorder  about  her  flushed 
and  freckled  face. 

"  Couldn't  you  nerve  yourself  to  tell  your  husband  —  Lady 
Cannynge?"  she  said,  bluntly. 

"But  —  I  told  you!     It's  my  husband  I  love!" 


464  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

**  Then  couldn't  you  trust  him  ?  " 

"Trust  hi'm!" 

*'With  just  the  truth?" 

"  He  would  never  speak  to  me  again.  That's  how  men 
are." 

And  Nurse  Jennings,  after  an  instant  of  silent  reflection, 
said: 

"  I  s'pose  it  is  how  they  are,  God  help  them !  " 

"  And  I  think "  Dolores  said,  looking  away  from  the 

nurse,  "  I  think  I  would  rather,  even  now,  that  they  were  like 
that." 

Nurse  Jennings  gazed  at  her  steadily.  But  neither  wonder 
nor  sarcasm  came  into  the  sunburnt  and  freckled  face,  only  a 
yery  human  tenderness. 

"  I  don't  see  how  your  husband  could  help  but  love  you," 
she  said. 

Dolores  turned  round,  came  to  the  nurse,  and  touched  her 
shoulder. 

"  Save  me  from  losing  him!  "  she  said,  with  an  accent  almost 
of  terror.  "  When  you  get  to  Rome,  go  to  Don  Cesare  Carelli 
and  make  him  understand.  Try  to  make  him  forgive  me,  leave 
me  alone.     Only  try!     But  —  if  he  doesn't!     If  he  won't!  " 

"Hush!  Hush!  Now,  my  dear,  we'll  go  to  the  garden 
and  be  quiet.  Didn't  we  come  here  to  be  quiet?  I've  no  idea 
of  spoiling  my  little  holiday,  I  can  tell  you,  with  a  lot  of  black 
fancies  that  for  almost  certain  won't  come  to  anything.  Time 
enough  to  grizzle  when  things  do  happen.  Now,  you  put  on 
your  hat  and  take  a  book,  and  we'll  go  and  sit  by  that  fountain. 
I  do  just  love  its  odd  little  noise!  " 

And  when  they  were  in  the  garden  Nurse  Jennings,  using  a 
subtlety  natural  to  women,  whether  subtle  or  not,  turned  the  » 
will  of  Dolores  towards  quietude  by  the  speaking  of  one  sen- 
tence only.     When  Nicola  had  duly  set  the  fountain  playing, 
she  remarked: 

"  There  are  times  in  a  woman's  life  when  she  doesn't  owe 
it  only  to  herself  to  keep  herself  from  grizzling  and  fretting, 
but  to  some  one  else  too." 

Dolores  looked  at  the  nurse  without  saying  a  word,  but  the 
expression  in  her  eyes  showed  that  she  had  understood,  and  that 
the  Avords  had  sunk  Jeep  into  the  soft  nest  of  her  heart. 

Did  the  nurse,  too,  believe? 

At  that  moment  Dolores  felt  as  If  her  mystical  belief  had 
received   the  crude  acquiescence  of  Mother  Nature.     She  did 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  465 

not  realize  that  the  truest  of  women  may  deceive  for  a  pur- 
pose connected  with  one  whom  she  has  learned  to  love  and  to 
pity. 

Dolores  did  not  answer  Cesare's  letters.  She  dared  not. 
[What  could  she  write  that  would  satisfy  him,  still  his  fierce 
excitement?  And  she  dared  not  let  him  know  where  she  was. 
'He  would  come  over  to  seek  her.  Till  Nurse  Jennings  returned 
to  Rome  things  must  be  left  as  they  were.  Dolores  hated  to 
treat  Cesare  with  what  must  seem  to  him  a  monstrous,  an  un- 
pardonable, contempt.  Still,  ought  he  not  to  have  some  con- 
sideration for  her  state  of  fear  after  the  receipt  of  the  Princess's 
warning?  She  tried  to  think  so.  She  even  did  think  so.  But, 
secretly,  she  pardoned  everything  because  of  his  love  for  her. 
And  she  felt  that  she  alone  was  the  sinner.  To  protect  herself 
from  the  terror  of  any  more  letters  she  telegraphed  to  the  palace 
that  nothing  more  was  to  be  forwarded,  that  she  m.ight  return  to 
Rome  any  day.  This  done,  she  resolved  to  detach  her  mind 
from  the  great  fear  of  the  future.  She  resolved  to  use  the  time 
remaining  to  her  in  Sicily  in  preparation  for  something  else. 
She  must  find  courage  and  calm.  She  had  sought  beauty,  quiet, 
with  a  strange  purpose  which  she  had  never  told  to  any  one, 
and  now  she  was  not  using  them.  She  would  use  them.  She 
would  give  herself  to  them.  Silently  she  strove  to  summon 
about  her  the  spirits  of  the  hills  and  of  the  sea,  the  spirits  of 
the  olive  and  almond  groves,  and  of  the  still  sea  caverns  where 
the  red  fire  of  the  coral  hides  in  the  glassy  deep.  To  a  paradise 
she  had  come  with  a  deliberate  intention.  And  now  she  re- 
solved to  fulfill  it. 

She  sank  into  stillness.  But  it  seemed  to  her  always  that  it 
was  the  stillness  which  precedes  storm.  It  happened  that  a  suc- 
cession of  days  of  scirocco  came  to  Sicily  just  then,  reminding 
her  often  of  that  winter  evening  when  she  had  driven  to  visit 
the  Princess  Mancelli.  Ever  before  her  eyes  Etna  brooded  with 
covered  fires,  smokeless,  terrific.  Now  and  then  the  gray  silence 
that  brooded  about  "  La  Montagna  "  was  riven  by  a  dull  and 
far  oR  detonation,  the  voice  of  the  mountain  speaking.  Then 
the  silence  closed  again.  But  the  voice  still  echoed  in  a  woman's 
memory.  To  Dolores  it  seemed  like  a  voice  that  arose  from  the 
molten  depths  of  the  things  unseen  to  threaten  her.  "  There  is 
no  debt  that  shall  not  eventually  be  paid  to  the  uttermost  far- 
thing. There  is  no  secret  thing  that  shall  not  one  day  be 
known."  So  the  meuntain  seemed  to  speak  through  the  still 
gray  weather  to  the  woman  who  watched  it  from  the  high  ter- 


466  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

race  above  the  still  gray  sea.  And  Its  voice  was  as  a  greater 
voice,  using  temporal  means  to  express  the  eternal  truths. 

Some  weeks  had  passed.  And  Sir  Theodore  was  coming. 
He  was  on  his  way.  Dolores  was  not  sure  why  he  made  the 
journey  to  Taormina  instead  of  meeting  her  in  Rome.  It  might 
be  because  he  had  not  yet  seen  Taormina.  Or  it  might  be  for 
another  reason ;  from  a  gentlemanly  desire  to  pay  a  delicate  at- 
tention to  his  wife  after  leaving  her  for  several  weeks  on  an- 
other woman's  business.  Theo  was  sometimes  very  careful  in 
little  things.  Detail  often  appealed  to  him.  This  journey  from 
Rome  to  Taormina  might  possibly  be  detail. 

How  was  she  going  to  meet  him? 

Nov/  that  she  knew  he  was  actually  on  his  way,  rushing  to- 
wards Sicily  by  day  and  night,  she  could  no  longer  control  her 
mind.  An  intense  nervous  agitation  took  possession  of  her. 
But  she  tried  to  govern  it.  And  specially  she  tried  to  conceal 
it  from  Nurse  Jennings.  She  showed  it  mainly  by  her  sudden 
desire  for  perpetual  occupation.  Now  she  could  not  be  still. 
She  rose  early  in  the  morning.  She  accompanied  Nurse  Jen- 
nings in  expeditions  mounted  on  donkey-back.  They  went  to- 
gether to  Monte  Ziretto,  to  the  summit  of  Monte  Venere. 
They  descended  to  the  sea,  took  a  boat,  visited  the  caves  and 
rowed  along  the  curving  shores.  And  the  time  passed  with  a 
fearful  swiftness.     And  the  day  of  Theo's  arrival  dawned. 

"He  cannot  know!"  Dolores  said  to  herself.  "He  shall 
not  know." 

But  she  spoke  to  herself  without  conviction.  Now  she  did 
not  feel  afraid  of  the  Princess's  telling  the  truth.  She  did  not 
feel  afraid  of  Cesare's  revealing  it,  by  some  reckless  lack  of 
caution  or  by  some  act  of  violence.  She  did  not  even  look  for- 
ward into  the  future,  and  wonder  what  she  would  do  when  her 
mystical  conviction  was  translated  into  fact.  What  she  feared 
was  her  own  revelation  now.  How  could  she  conceal  the 
change  in  herself  from  Theo?  How  could  she  cover  her  se- 
cret as  Etna  covered  the  tremendous  fires? 

She  looked  at  herself  in  the  glass.  Surely  her  appearance 
v/as  changed.  Surely  the  most  casual  eyes  must  see  the  woman 
she  had  become.  And  Theo's  eyes  had  seen  her  for  more  than 
ten  years,  while  she  had  been  a  good  woman.  A  sickening 
dread  possessed  her.  Since  she  had  sinned  she  no  longer  be- 
lieved in  Theo's  unfaithfulness  to  her.  She  felt  that  she  had 
never  believed  in  it.     She  knew  now  that  if  Theo  had  actually 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  467 

sinned  against  her  he  could  never  have  taken  her  to  Frascati, 
spoken  of  Edna  to  her  as  he  had  spoken. 

She  had  ordered  a  carriage  and  had  intended  to  go  down  to 
the  station  of  Giardini  to  meet  the  train  from  Messina.  But 
when  a  servant  came  to  tell  her  the  carriage  was  waiting  at  the 
door  she  could  not  make  up  her  mind  to  go  in  it.  And  she 
called  Nurse  Jennings. 

"Nurse,"  she  said  —  she  was  near  to  trembling,  but  con- 
trolled her  body  with  an  effort  — "  will  you  do  something  for 
me?     Will  you  go  down  and  meet  ray  husband?" 

*'  Don't  you  feel  up  to  going?  " 

Dolores  shook  her  head. 

"Wouldn't  it  be  better  to  go  and  get  it  over?"  said  Nurse 
Jennings. 

She  spoke  calmly,  even  cheerfully. 

"Yes.     But  — I  can't  go." 

"  Then  I  will,"  said  the  nurse. 

"Thank  you.  And  —  and  say  something  to  him.  Say  I'm 
really  not  very  well,  or  of  course  I  would  have  come.  Explain 
—  prepare  him  for  —  he  may  find  me  changed." 

"  You  must  not  give  way,  or  he  will." 

"  It  will  be  all  right,  if  I  just  get  this  hour  alone." 

Nurse  Jennings  came  close  to  her,  held  her  hand,  gave  her  a 
kiss,  and  went  away  to  the  carriage.  In  a  moment  Dolores 
heard  the  sound  of  a  whip  cracking,  of  wheels  and  of  horses 
trotting.  She  went  down  to  the  farther  of  the  two  terraces 
below,  and  walked  up  and  down  in  the  sun.  For  the  scirocco 
had  lifted,  and  the  sun  was  shining  that  da5\ 

No  one  was  there.  She  paced  to  and  fro  for  a  long  time. 
But  the  movement  seemed  to  increase  her  nervous  agitation,  and 
at  last  she  went  upstairs,  and  sat  down  once  more  on  her  own 
terrace.  She  sought  almost  frantically  in  her  mind  for  some 
subject  on  which  she  could  fix  her  attention.  And,  as  people 
often  do  when  they  find  themselves  in  desperate  circumstances, 
she  told  herself  that  nothing  really  matters  in  the  life  of  the 
world. 

"  I  am  nothing!  It  is  all  nothing!  "  he  said  to  herself.  "  It 
will  pass  away  and  be  forgotten  almost  directly.  Soon  I  shall 
be  gone  forever.  Theo  too!  And  those  who  will  condemn 
me,  if  what  I  have  done  is  ever  known,  they  are  all  hurrying 
into  darkness.  We  are  shadows.  It  doesn't  matter  what  hap- 
pens to  us  here!     It  doesn't  matter  at  all  what  happens  to  me," 


468  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

And  all  the  time  she  felt  that  it  mattered  more  than  anything 
had  mattered  since  the  beginning  of  the  world. 

She  tried  to  recapture  the  world-feeling  which  she  had  had 
now  and  then.  She  looked  at  Etna  —  to-day  showing  a  plume 
of  white  smoke  —  and  at  the  vast  panorama  of  peaks,  and  ra- 
vines, of  rock  and  plain  and  sea.  "  There  is  the  truth,"  she  said 
to  herself.  "  That  remains  —  endures.  Etna  saw  Empedocles, 
and  is  here  still.     In  a  few  years  I  shall  be  dust." 

But  she  felt  as  if  she  were  much  more  than  Etna  in  God's 
great  scheme.  And  then,  abruptly  as  it  had  happened  before,  the 
strange  weariness  and  malaise  beset  her.  For  a  moment  she 
was  overcome  by  a  sense  of  remoteness,  as  if  she  were  with- 
drawn to  a  great  distance.  She  closed  her  eyes.  And  the 
world-feeling  came  to  her,  not  in  connection  with  nature  and 
nature's  glory,  but  in  connection  with  something  helpless,  frail, 
that  might  be  put  out  almost  with  a  breath,  and  that,  when  it 
came,  would  depend  on  God  through  her.  She  had  found  what 
she  needed.  She  fastened  her  mind  upon  it.  She  thought, 
"  Not  for  me,  not  for  Cesare,  not  for  Theo  —  but  for  the 
world !  "  She  brooded  over  that  thought,  keeping  her  eyes 
closed.  She  sank  down  into  that  thought.  It  was  like  cloud 
and  fire  about  her. 

Down  the  narrow  road  that  led  to  the  piazza  she  heard 
cheerful  noises,  the  determined  cracking  of  a  whip,  the  rolling  of 
wheels,  the  trot  of  horses'  feet.  Theo  was  coming.  But  still 
she  kept  her  eyes  shut.  And  the  thought  had  not  left  her  even 
now.  The  noises  grew  loud  and  ceased.  She  heard  voices  —  a 
deep  bass  voice  that  brought  all  her  married  life  about  her.  Her 
heart  beat  quickly.  But  she  sat  still  and  clung  now  to  her 
thought,  as  if  that  alone  could  bring  her  salvation.  She  heard 
steps  on  the  stairs,  the  bass  voice  saying,  "Which  is  it?"  a 
rather  loud  knock  on  the  door.  She  turned  her  head,  without 
opening  her  eyes,  and  tried  to  call,  "  Come  in!  " 

"Doloretta!" 

Had  she  called?  The  door  was  open.  She  was  looking  at 
Theo's  tall  figure,  brown  hands,  bright  eyes,  thick  silvered  hair. 
And  he  seemed  to  her  new,  because  of  her  sin.  He  crossed  the 
room  and  came  out  to  the  terrace. 

"What's  this?    You  are  ill!" 

Bending  down  he  took  her  hand.  She  looked  up  at  him 
steadily,  keeping  her  thought  in  her  mind. 

"Not  ill!" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  469 

"  But  you've  got  Nurse  Jennings,  and  she  tells  mc  you  really 
are  not  well.     And  if  you've  brought  her  with  you " 

"  I  brought  her  as  company  —  chiefly." 

He  sat  down  near  her.  His  eyes  were  searching  her  face. 
She  saw  that,  and  clung  to  her  thought  more  firmly,  almost 
fiercely. 

"  But  you  do  not  look "  he  began. 

He  stopped.  An  almost  puzzled  expression  came  into  his 
eyes. 

"  What  ?  "  said  Dolores.     "  What  ?  " 

She  never  took  her  eyes  from  his. 

"  Not  exactly  ill!  "  he  said. 

For  a  moment  he  seemed,  she  thought,  embarrassed.  He 
moved  his  chair  round  till  he  faced  the  view.  And  he  gazed  at 
It  in  silence. 

"  Marvelous!  "  he  said.  "  People  are  right.  Old  Newman 
was  right,  and  Goethe,  when  he  wrote  '  Kennst  Du  das  Land  ? ' 
here." 

Still  looking  at  the  view  he  repeated  the  first  verse,  almost 
under  his  breath,  in  a  muttering  voice.     At  the  end  he  sighed. 

"  Wonderful !"  he  said. 

He  turned  again  towards  Dolores.  His  face  had  changed. 
It  held  a  look  of  strong,  very  genuine  emotion. 

"  A  change  from  —  Lancaster  Gate!  "  he  said.  "  Who  shall 
dare  to  say  that  life  is  not  worth  living?  But,  the  worst  of 
it  is  a  place  like  this  makes  one  —  such  is  the  eternal  voracity 
of  human  nature,  eh!  —  long  for  more,  for  other.  Doesn't  it? 
Have  you  ever  noticed,  Doloretta,  that  we  really  are  fashioned 
for  Eternity,  whatever  the  materialists,  the  atheists  say?  We 
know  it  in  a  place  like  this,  where  we  are  given  —  well,  almost 
the  ultimate  beauty,  and  where  we  desire,  and  just  in  conse- 
quence of  that,  more,  more  of  everything.  Well,  now  to  un- 
pack!" 

He  got  up,  rather  brusquely,  then  stood  looking  down  on  her 
earnestly. 

"  More  of  everything!  "  he  repeated. 

He  bent  down  and  kissed  Dolores.  Then  he  went  into  his 
bedroom  which  adjoined  hers.  And  while  he  unpacked,  she 
heard  him  humming,  "  Kennst  Du  das  Land?  " 


470  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 


CHAPTER  XXXVII 

That  evening  after  dinner  Sir  Theodore  said  to  his  wife: 
"  You  are  coming  to  sit  on  the  terrace?     And  you,  nurse?" 
"  In  a  moment,  Theo.     I  must  go  and  get  a  wrap." 
"  D'you  think  you'll  need  one?" 
"  A  very  light  one.     We'll  be  down  directly." 
She  went  away  followed  by  Nurse  Jennings.     Sir  Theodore 
strolled  out  to  the  terrace  and  lit  a  cigar. 

The  night  was  warm,  like  a  night  of  summer  in  a  land  of 
the  sun. 

There  was  no  wind.  Not  even  the  lightest  breeze  moved 
the  heavy  leaves  of  the  palm  trees,  the  climbing  roses  that  hid 
the  columns.  Far  away  below  the  murmur  of  the  sea  was  just 
audible.  Like  fireflies  above  the  water  shone  the  torches  of  the 
fishermen,  as  they  put  out  from  Giardini  for  their  toil  on  the 
deep.  Just  below  the  terrace,  beyond  the  garden  of  the  hotel, 
Sir  Theodore  saw  a  dark  mass  of  trees.  And  as  he  stood 
with  his  hand  on  the  rail  that  protected  the  terrace  from  some- 
where below  and  beyond  him  the  voice  of  a  man  rose  up. 

"  A   mezzannott'  appunto 
Si   sente   un    gran   rumore, 
Sono  ]e  gariolandi  la  la  la  la 
Che  vanno   a  labora. 

Quest'e   la  via   del   ponte 

Dove  quel  traditore 

Venne  a  tradir  la  bionda  la  la  la  la 

Con    un   bacio    d'amor." 

Slowly  the  voice  traveled,  as  the  hidden  singer  moved  on  amid 
the  trees,  going  towards  the  promontory  above  the  sea  where 
■Gcethe  sat  —  it  is  said  —  when  he  wrote  his  wonderful  song. 
It  grew  more  plaintive  as  it  grew  fainter.  From  the  lighted 
town  spread  out  on  the  hills  bells  sounded.  Etna,  like  a  gigan- 
tic shadow,  lifted  itself  towards  the  myriads  of  stars.  The 
penetrating  scent  of  flowers  stole  up  from  the  garden  below. 
And  Sir  Theodore  stood  quite  still  watching,  listening,  held, 
body  and  mind,  by  the  spell  of  place  and  of  night,  subjugated 
by  Sicily. 

In  a  room  above  him  Nurse  Jennings  was  saying  to  Dolores : 

"  Yes,  that's  it.     I  will  start  back  to-morrow.     It's  better 

so.     And   I'll   make  him   understand.     Now,   my   dear,    don't 

worry.     Remember  what  I  said  to  you  about  thinking  for  an- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  471 

other.  It  may  be.  Who's  to  know?  Trust  it  to  me.  And 
go  down  now,  or  he'll  be  getting  impatient.     Men  always  do." 

"  But  you  are  coming!  " 

"  No,  I'll  stay  up  here." 

"But " 

"  No,  indeed.  I  can  tell  you  that  this  last  night  I  shall 
have  my  own  thoughts,  and  plenty  of  them." 

"  I  understand,"  said  Dolores.     "  You've  had  your  dream." 

"  Owing  to  you." 

"  And  it's  only  the  beginning,  I  think." 

"Who's  to  know?" 

The  two  women  exchanged  a  kiss.  Dolores  went  down. 
She  saw  Nurse  Jennings  no  more  that  night. 

As  she  came  out,  and  shut  the  glass  door  behind  her,  she 
saw  the  tall  form  of  her  husband  on  the  farther  terrace,  mo- 
tionless. She  stood  for  a  moment  watching  him,  and  wonder- 
ing why  at  that  moment  it  was  not  to  him  that  she  felt  herself 
traitress  but  to  Cesare.  She  hesitated  to  approach  him.  He 
had  seemed  to  accept  the  new  Dolores  that  day.  He  had  even, 
in  this  new  environment,  been  much  more  like  the  Theo  of 
old  than  he  had  been  since  their  first  coming  to  Rome.  There 
had  been  a  softness,  almost  a  tenderness  in  his  manner  to  his 
wife.  Dolores  had  feared  an  instinctive  recoil  on  his  part. 
But  he  had  seemed  freshly  attracted  by  her.  He  had  seemed 
to  wish  to  draw  near  to  her.  The  prophesies  of  her  tormented 
heart  had  been  falsified. 

And  this  fact  made  Theo  strange  to  Dolores  that  evening. 
Now  she  went  towards  him,  walking  softly  among  the  little 
chairs  and  under  the  spiky  leaves  of  the  palms.  She  stepped 
down  on  to  the  second  unsheltered  terrace,  roofed  only  by  the 
stars.     And  she  came  up  to  him.     Without  turning  he  said: 

"  What  a  place !     I  believe  in  Ulysses,  I  believe  in "  He 

moved,  and  looked  at  his  wife.  "  Doloretta,  depend  upon  it 
this  was  the  Isle  of  Calypso.     Look!     Listen  to  that  sea!  " 

After  a  moment  he  quoted,  "  '  It  was  a  scene  to  fill  a  God 
from  Heaven  with  wonder  and  delight.'  Yes,  it  must  have 
been  here  that  Calypso  offered  immortality  to  Ulysses.  Calypso ! 
What  a  name!  And  there  are  people  who  say  a  word  can't  be 
beautiful!     But  how  could  Ulysses  go?"     He  paused. 

"  But  where's  Nurse  Jennings?  "  he  said,  in  a  changed  tone. 

"  She's  not  coming  down  any  more  to-night." 

"Isn't  she?  Let  us  sit  down  —  here  by  the  railing.  One 
hears  the  wash  of  the  sea." 


472  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  She's  decided  to  start  back  to  Rome  to-morrow." 

"  But  I  don't  want  to  drive  her  away.  She  seems  a  nice  sort 
of  woman,  dependable,  I  should  think." 

"  I  like  her  very  much  indeed.  I  look  upon  her  as  a  real 
friend." 

"  Well,  no  doubt  we  shall  see  her  again  in  Rome.  But 
don't  let  us  think  about  even  Rome  to-night." 

"  Theo,"  Dolores  said,  after  a  silence.  "  What  made  you 
come  here  to  fetch  me  back?  Was  it  because  you  had  never 
seen  Taormina  ?  " 

"  Not  wholly.     Why  do  you  ask?  " 

"  I  only  wondered,  a  little." 

"  I  thought  I  should  like  to  see  Sicily  with  you,  after  such 
a  lot  of  Lancaster  Gate." 

"With  me!     Did  you?" 

The  sound  in  her  voice  moved  him  to  draw  his  chair  closer 
to  her.  He  did  not  know  why,  or  even  how,  but  it  seemed  to 
him  that  his  wife  had  changed  subtly.  And  there  was  some- 
thing in  the  change  which  affected  him,  which  —  yes,  he  ac- 
knowledged it  to  himself  under  the  stars  —  which  fascinated 
him  anew.  Always  she  had  been  peculiarly  feminine.  But 
now  she  seemed  to  be  of  the  very  essence  of  woman,  strangely 
appealing  and  yet  strangely  mysterious.  He  said  to  himself 
that  perhaps  the  marvelous  beauty  of  the  cadre  in  which  he 
found  her  affected  his  outlook  upon  her.  But  something  in  his 
heart  denied  it.  There  was  surely  a  change.  And  it  was  a 
change  that  could  not  leave  a  sensitive  man  wholly  unmoved. 

"Are  you  surprised,  Doloretta?"  he  said. 

"I  don't  know.     And  —  and  that  was  your  only  reason?'* 

"  That  was  my  reason.  Don't  be  like  Elsa  to-night.  Don't 
ask  too  much." 

"  It  is  a  mistake  to  ask  too  much  of  any  human  being.  Yes. 
How  true  that  is !  " 

"  But  —  could  I  ask  you  too  much?"  he  leaned  a  little  to- 
wards her.  "  I  don't  think  so,  Doloretta.  You  have  a  look  of 
mystery,  but  I  don't  think  in  all  your  mystery  I  could  ever 
come  upon  a  repugnant  thing." 

She  said  nothing,  but  she  drew  her  white  wrap  more  closely 
about  her. 

"  No,"  he  continued.  "  It  is  quite  true,  I  suppose,  that  one 
human  being  can  never  completely  know  another.  But  one 
human  being  can  absolutely  know  certain  things  about  another." 

"  Certain  things?" 


I 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  473 

"  As  for  instance  I  absolutely  know  that  there  are  some  things 
which  you  are  incapable  of  doing." 

"Yes?" 

"  You  seem  surprised !  " 

"  When  you  say  that  we  can  absolutely  know •  !" 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  I  don't  absolutely  know  you  are 
Incapable,  for  instance,  of  a  betrayal  of  trust  —  of  my  trust, 
let  us  say  ?  " 

"Oh  —  hark!     There  is  some  one  singing!" 

She  got  up  and  stood  by  the  rail.  He  came  and  stood  be- 
side her.     He  took  her  hand. 

"  The  Isle  of  Calypso !  "  he  murmured.  "  The  enchanted 
Isle." 

When  the  voice  died  away  he  said : 

"  Shall  we  go  up  to  the  upper  terrace,  our  own  terrace?" 

"  If  you  like,  Theo." 

Even  her  voice  seemed  to  him  to  have  subtly  changed,  to 
be  more  appealing  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 

When  they  passed  through  her  lighted  bedroom  to  go  out 
to  the  high  terrace,  which  belonged  exclusively  to  them,  he 
stopped,  and  looked  closely  into  her  eyes. 

"What  —  your  eyes  look  so  strange  to-night,  Doloretta!" 
he  said.  "So  strange!  But,  why  are  there  tears  in  them 
now?" 

She  bent  her  head.  She  did  not  say  a  word.  He  drew 
her  to  him  till  her  face  was  hidden  against  his  body. 

The  light  in  Nurse  Jennings'  room  was  extinguished. 

"  What  is  it?  "  he  almost  whispered.     "  But  what  is  it?  " 
'      "  Don't  ask  —  there  are  so  many  things!  " 

"  Have  I  —  is  it  my  fault?     Have  I  hurt  you?     Have  I  ?  " 

"  Let  me  cry,  Theo!     I  —  can't  help  it  to-night." 

He  drew  her  down  on  a  sofa  close  to  the  window,  and  held 
her  for  a  long  time.     And  as  he  held  her  he  thought: 

"What  have  I  been  doing  all  this  time?     Perhaps " 

That  night  he  returned  to  Dolores. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII 

The  day  after  Nurse  Jennings'  return  to  Rome  she  took  a  cat> 
and  drove  to  the  palace  in  the  Corso  Umberto  Primo  where 
Cesare  Carelli  lived  with  his  parents.  She  had  not  written  to 
say  she  was  coming,  but  she  had  quite  decided  that  if  Cesare 


474  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

were  in  Rome  he  would  be  obliged  to  receive  her  and  to  listen 
to  what  she  had  to  say.  She  arrived  at  the  palace  at  ten 
o'clock  in  the  morning.  As  she  got  out  of  the  cab  an  old  man 
with  a  very  red  face  and  a  dazed  expression,  issued  heavily 
from  the  porter's  lodge  on  the  left  of  tlie  entrance,  and  told 
her  to  go  up  to  the  third  floor.  Vaguely  he  offered  her  the 
use  of  the  lift.  She  sturdily  refused  it,  mounted  the  great 
staircase,  and  rang  an  electric  bell  beside  a  tall  door  painted 
black.     It  was  opened  by  a  large  manservant. 

"  I  want  to  see  Don  Cesare  Carelli,  please,"  said  Nurse 
Jennings  with  calm  decision. 

The  man  looked  at  her  with  surprise. 

"  Ma "  he  began. 

*'  Is  he  in  Rome?  "  interrupted  the  nurse. 

"  Si." 

"  Is  he  in  the  house?  " 

"  Si,  signora.     Don  Cesare  is  in  the  house,  but " 

"  Kindly  say  I  must  see  him,  and  give  him  this." 

She  handed  to  the  servant  a  card  on  which  she  had  written 
"  Nurse  Ida  Jennings." 

"  Don  Cesare  knows  me  and  will  see  me,"  she  added. 

The  servant  asked  her  to  walk  into  the  hall,  and,  still  look- 
ing rather  solemnly  surprised  and  doubtful,  went  away  with 
the  card.  After  being  away  for  several  minutes  he  came  back, 
and  asked  Nurse  Jennings  if  Don  Cesare  had  met  her  recently. 

"  Yes.  Please  tell  him  quite  recently,  when  I  was  attending 
a  patient  in  Rome." 

The  servant  took  this  message  and  almost  immediately  asked 
the  nurse  to  walk  into  a  large  sitting-room,  evidently  a  man's 
room,  and  to  sit  down. 

"  Don  Cesare  will  come  at  once,"  he  added. 

The  nurse  did  not  sit  down.  She  felt  active.  She  felt 
braced  up  for  a  conflict.  Before  she  left  that  room  she  was 
determined  to  secure  Dolores  from  the  danger  of  any  persecu- 
tion at  the  hands  of  the  man  with  the  fiery  eyes. 

She  looked  about  the  room,  which  was  comfortable  but  not 
artistic,  and  was  rather  dark  in  tone.  The  big  armchairs  vrere 
of  black  leather  much  worn.  And  there  was  a  huge  black 
leather  sofa  standing  against  a  solid  writing-table  edged  with 
a  brass  rail.  There  were  bookcases,  which  to  Nurse  Jennings' 
not  unintelligent  eyes  looked  as  ii  they  contained  that  type  of 
literature  forever  unread  by  any  one.  On  a  small  table  lay 
three  or  four  neatly  folded  newspapers.     The  high  dark  red 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  475 

walls,  which  went  up  to  a  painted  and  coffered  ceiling,  were 
decorated  with  a  few  pictures;  dim  and  mysterious  oil  land- 
scapes, dim  and  mysterious  oil  ancestors,  some  clever  sketches 
of  horses  still  and  in  movement  over  obstacles,  several  pairs 
of  foils  and  two  outrageous  caricatures  of  Roman  young  men, 
marvelously  clever  and  marvelously  audacious,  by  Cirella.  A 
large  photograph  of  the  Duke  of  the  Abruzzi  had  an  inscription 
at  the  bottom.  Not  far  from  it  there  was  a  photograph  of 
Queen  Margherita,  also  with  an  autograph.  Upon  the  writ- 
ing-table lay  a  book  on  the  use  of  aeroplanes  in  war,  Le  Roi  a 
French  comedy,  and  Paul  Bourget's  Mensonges.  Between  the 
leaves  of  this  last  was  thrust  a  large  ivory  paper  knife. 

The  door  opened,  and  Nurse  Jennings,  turning,  was  con- 
fronted by  the  man  she  had  already  once  faced  and  got  rid  of. 

"  Good  morning!  "  she  said. 

Cesare  came  up  to  her,  and  took  her  hand. 

"  Good  morning." 

He  dropped  her  hand,  which  he  had  taken  formally,  even 
stiffly,  and  added: 

"  I  hope  you  will  sit  down." 

"  Thank  you,"  said  Nurse  Jennings." 

She  sat  down  on  the  black  leather  sofa. 

"  How  is  Lady  Cannynge?  "  said  Cesare. 

As  he  spoke  he  lowered  his  brows.  Nurse  Jennings  saw  that 
he  was  violently  excited,  though  his  voice  did  not  show  it. 

"  I  suppose  you  are  still  with  her?  "  he  added,  before  she  had 
time  to  reply. 

"  No,  I  have  come  away.  Lady  Cannynge  Is  with  her  hus- 
band now." 

"Where?" 

The  word  came  from  his  lips  fiercely.  He  looked  angry,  as 
if  with  himself,  and  hastily  continued: 

"  No  doubt  Lady  Cannynge  has  come  back  to  Rome." 

"  No.     Her  husband  has  gone  to  her." 

He  said  nothing. 

"They  are  in  Sicily!"  added  the  nurse. 

"In  Sicily!"  said  Cesare,  as  if  struck  with  a  stern  amaze- 
ment. 

"  I  came  from  there  yesterday.  That  is  I  got  here  yes- 
terday." 

Cesare  sat  down. 

"  Lady  Cannynge  has  been  In  Sicily  ever  since  she  left 
Rome?"  he  said. 


476  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

He  looked  straight  at  Nurse  Jennings.  His  black  eyes  had 
become  piercing,  his  handsome  face  almost  ugly  with  suspicion. 
When  he  was  not  speaking  his  mouth  was  set  and  obstinate. 
And  as  his  expression  changed,  and  the  attraction  of  his  youth 
and  comeliness  slipped  almost  mysteriously  away  from  him, 
Nurse  Jennings  felt  herself  change  towards  him.  She  began 
to  pity  him  and  to  feel  something  that  was  almost  liking  for 
him. 

"  Yes.  We  went  off  suddenly.  She  was  not  well.  She 
needed  a  rest." 

After  a  short  pause,  during  which  his  steady  eyes  never  left 
her  face,  Cesare  said: 

"  May  I  ask  why  you  are  kind  enough  to  come  here?  Per- 
haps you  have  a  letter?  " 

"Oh  no,  indeed!" 

He  frowned. 

"  What  is  it  then,  please?  " 

"  Well  —  Lady  Cannynge  wished  me  to  come." 

"Yes?" 

Nurse  Jennings  felt  an  uneasiness,  even  a  strong  discomfort 
that  shook  her  usual  composure  severely.  She  did  not  know 
how  she  was  going  to  tell  this  man  what  she  had  come  to  tell 
him.  And  she  almost  feared  what  would  happen  when  she 
spoke  plainly. 

"  Lady  Cannynge  had  some  letters  from  you,  according  to 
her,  when  she  was  at  Taormina." 

"Yes?" 

"  They  upset  her  very  much." 

"Did  they?" 

He  spoke  rather  loudly,  and  with  little  expression.  In  a  hard 
voice. 

"  Terribly." 

"  And  so  she  spoke  to  you  about  my  letters!  " 

"  Yes,  she  did.  And  she  was  very  right.  A  woman  who 
has  been  through  what  Lady  Cannynge  has  must  speak.  If  she 
has  a  true  friend.     We  aren't  like  men." 

Cesare  said  nothing,  but  sat  still  and  stared  hard  into  the 
nurse's  face. 

"  I'm  bound  to  tell  you  something,"  Nurse  Jennings  went  on 
with  difficulty.     "  I  know  all  about  It." 

"  All  about  what?  "  said  Cesare  in  the  same  unnatural  voice. 

"  About  Lady  Cannynge  and  you." 

"Yes?" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  477 

Suddenly  Nurse  Jennings  felt  that  she  must  do  something 
to  break  through  the  ugly  awkwardness  of  this  interview. 

"  It  has  all  been  a  dreadful  mistake,"  she  said,  letting  her 
Irish  vivacity  have  free  rein.  "  But  you  won't  let  it  be  any 
worse  than  that!  You  won't  ruin  the  life  of  such  a  sweet 
creature  as  she  is!     And  so  unhappy,  too,  for  years!  " 

"I  only  want  to  make  her  happy!"  he  said  sternly,  with 
pride. 

Since  Nurse  Jennings  had  begun  to  speak  frankly  he  had 
called  pride  to  his  aid.  And  now,  for  the  first  time,  the  nurse 
felt  the  difference  between  his  rank  and  her  station. 

"  You  never  can,"  she  blurted  out,  bluntly.  "  And  I  am 
here  to  tell  you  so." 

Cesare  got  up. 

**  What  do  you  mean  ?  "  he  said  fiercely.  "  What  are  you 
talking  about  ?  " 

"  What  I  know.  You  never  can  do  anything  for  her  happi- 
ness. For  she's  one  as  can  only  be  happy  through  love,  and 
she  doesn't  love  you." 

"  You  know  nothing  about  it!  " 

He  spoke  now  with  arrogance.  But  the  nurse  did  not  re- 
sent it.  She  felt  that  he  was  only  trying  to  clothe  himself  in 
armor. 

"  I  know  this,  that  Lady  Cannynge  loves  no  one  but  her 
husband,  and  that  she  sent  m.e  here  to  tell  3'ou  so." 

"  If  that  is  true " 

"  It  is  true.  Don't  I  say  she's  sent  me  here  to  tell  you  so  ? 
How  could  I  know  it,  how  could  I  have  come  here,  if  she 
hadn't  told  me  in  so  many  words,  and  begged  me  to  come  here?  " 

"  If  that  is  true,  I  say,  then  Lady  Cannynge  —  then  Lady 
Cannynge  has " 

He  broke  ofF,  almost  as  if  he  were  choked.  All  the  time 
he  had  never  taken  his  eyes  from  the  nurse's  face,  and  she 
had  seen  the  ready  suspicion  of  the  Italian  fade  into  a  con- 
viction that  was  cruel.  Cesare  was  too  intelligent  to  be  able 
to  doubt  complete  sincerity.  The  nurse  saw  that,  against  his 
will,  he  believed  what  she  had  said.  His  manhood  had  re- 
ceived the  last  insult.  But  though  for  a  moment  he  could 
not  go  on  speaking,  he  retained  his  arrogant  expression.  Even 
his  body  looked  stiff  with  pride  as  he  stood  in  front  of  the  sofa. 

"  She  didn't  know,"  said  Nurse  Jennings,  but  now  with  a 
certain  feebleness,  as  of  one  pleading  a  lost  cause.  "  She  was 
carried  away." 


478  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  By  what  ?  "  said  Cesare,  in  a  tone  of  bitter  contempt. 

Nurse  Jennings  looked  down. 

"  She  was  carried  avv^ay,"  she  repeated,  almost  dully. 

Cesare  turned  and  walked  to  the  window. 

He  longed  to  vent  his  sense  of  outrage,  his  fury,  upon  the 
nurse,  because  she  knew,  and  because  she  had  dared  to  come 
to  his  house  and  to  tell  him  such  a  thing.  And  he  longed, 
he  felt  as  if  he  absolutely  needed,  to  commit  some  violent  action, 
to  let  his  body  go  in  some  tremendous  demonstration.  He 
stood  by  the  window  and  looked  down  into  the  courtyard  of 
the  palace.  And  an  ugly  red  stain  disfigured  his  clear  v/hite 
complexion.  That  such  a  thing  should  have  been  said  to  him, 
and  that  it  should  be  true.  But  was  it  true?  Could  it  be 
true?  He  did  not  know  this  woman,  this  paid  nurse.  She 
might  have  told  him  lies.  What  her  motive  could  be,  if  it 
were  so,  he  could  not  divine.  He  was  in  no  condition  to  seek 
it.     But  he  would  not  believe  her  —  he  would  not. 

"Basta!    Basta!"  he  said  to  himself. 

He  turned  round,  and  the  nurse  thought  he  looked  almost 
old,  and  quite  ugly. 

"  I  don't  believe  what  you  say,"  he  said.  "  I  don't  believe 
Lady  Cannynge  is  the  woman  you  are  trying  to  make  out." 

Nurse  Jennings  flamed  up. 

"  I'll  thank  you  not  to  speak  against  Lady  Cannynge  to 
me!  "  she  exclaimed  hotly. 

"  It  is  you,  not  I,  who  have  spoken  against  her.  You  know 
that  quite  well.  You  have  accused  her  of  an  abominable 
action." 

"How  dare ?" 

"  Of  a  caprice  any  woman  might  be  ashamed  of.  I  don't 
believe  Lady  Cannynge  is  capable  of  such  conduct,  of  such  a 
caprice.  I  will  never  believe  it,  until  she  either  tells  me  per- 
sonally that  what  you  have  said  is  true,  or  until  she  writes 
to  me  to  say  so.  Perhaps  you  will  be  kind  enough  to  tell  her 
this  from  me.  I  suppose  you  are  going  to  see  her  again.  If 
she  does  not  send  for  me,  or  write  to  me,  I  will  call  upon  her 
directly  I  hear  she  is  in  Rome." 

As  he  was  speaking  the  last  words  he  walked  towards  the  door 
and  opened  it. 

"  I  am  much  obliged  to  you  for  coming,"  he  said. 

Nurse  Jennings  got  up  and  went  out  without  saying  another 
word.  In  the  hall  she  met  the  maestro  di  casa  who  escorted 
her  to  the  front  door. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  479 

Within  a  week  Cesare  received  the  following  note  written 
by  Dolores: 

"  All  that  she  told  you  is  true,  and  I  sent  her  to  tell  it  to 
you.— D.  C." 

A  few  days  later  the  "  tout-Rome  "  was  interested  to  learn 
that  Don  Cesare  Carelli  had  decided  to  marry,  and  that  his 
choice  had  fallen  upon  Donna  Ursula  Montebruno. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX 

One  day  early  in  the  following  February  Sir  Theodore  drove 
over  to  Frascati,  where  the  Denzil  family  was  still  living  with 
]\Irs.  Massingham.  The  object  of  this  particular  visit  was  to 
come  to  a  definite  arrangement  about  little  Theo's  immediate 
future.  He  was  to  go  to  a  preparatory  school  in  England  after 
Easter.  Sir  Theodore  had  been  gathering  particulars  concern- 
ing several  likely  schools  from  English  friends,  and  had  in 
his  hand  a  small  packet  of  letters  as  he  got  out  of  the  motor 
at  the  top  of  the  steps  leading  down  to  the  house  with  the  red 
loggia. 

He  was  wrapped  up  in  a  fur  coat.  After  an  unusually  warm 
and  radiant  winter  the  weather  had  suddenly  changed  and  be- 
come intensely  cold.  The  sky  was  a  blackish  gray,  and  a  strong 
wind  blew  in  his  face  from  the  melancholy  Campagna. 

He  found  all  the  Denzils  indoors,  Mrs.  Massingham  was  in 
bed  with  an  attack  of  influenza.  Vi  had  a  cough.  But  Iris 
and  little  Theo  were  in  their  usual  health  and  spirits.  After 
a  romp  with  them,  and  a  talk  with  Mrs.  Massingham,  who 
now  treated  Sir  Theodore  as  a  sort  of  cherished  relation,  and 
did  not  even  mind  his  seeing  her  with  her  hair  in  some  con- 
fusion, Edna  and  he  retired  to  the  sitting-room  which  opened 
on  to  the  loggia  to  read  and  discuss  the  letters.  The  French 
windows  were  shut.  A  stove  heated  the  rather  ugly,  but  not 
uncomfortable  room.  Edna  Denzil  and  Sir  Theodore  drew  up 
their  chairs  to  a  small  table  near  it,  and  began  the  discussion. 

As  a  rule  Sir  Theodore  was  very  much  what  Edna  called 
"  on  the  spot  "  in  conversation.  His  mind  seldom  wandered 
from  the  matter  in  hand.  And  when  the  children  were  being 
talked  about  his  interest  was  singularly  alert.     Edna,  was,  there- 


48o  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

fore,  rather  surprised  now  to  find  that  he  was  occasionally  ab- 
sent-minded. It  seemed  to  her  that  he  had  to  make  an  effort 
to  throw  himself  into  this  affair  of  the  schools,  that  he  was 
really  inclined  to  think  of  something  else.  Nevertheless  he 
read  her  all  the  letters  and  considered  their  contents.  His 
preference  was  for  a  school  near  Ascot.  The  only  thing  against 
it  was  the  fact  that  it  was  more  expensive  than  the  other 
schools. 

"  If  you  really  believe  it  to  be  the  most  healthy  I  think  Theo 
had  better  go  there,"  said  Edna  Denzil  at  last.  "  I  will  man- 
age somehow.  And  you  know  I  am  a  little  richer  this  year. 
The  house  in  Lancaster  Gate !  " 

She  smiled  at  him. 

"  That  sale  was  a  real  benefit  to  me." 

"To  be  sure!"  he  replied.  "I  have  never  regretted  my 
run  over  to  England  in  September.  But  it  was  a  stroke  of 
luck  finding  a  buyer  at  such  a  price." 

"  Yes." 

"  Well  then,  Ascot  let  It  be !  " 

He  put  the  letters  into  a  leather  case  and  the  case  into  his 
pocket. 

"  Hov/  extraordinary  this  cold  is!"  he  said.  "Coming  so 
suddenly!  " 

He  drew  his  chair  close  to  the  stove.  He  was  looking 
straight  before  him.     Edna  Denzil  took  up  a  piece  of  work. 

"  Yes,"  she  said. 

There  was  a  silence.  She  regarded  her  friend  with  a  cer- 
tain curiosity.  He  looked,  she  thought,  unusually  grave,  yet 
not  sad.  She  felt  that  he  was  strongly  concentrated  upon 
some  thought,  perhaps  some  problem,  that  she  knew  nothing  of. 
For  once  she  and  her  little  family  were  remote  from  his  mind. 
As  she  realized  this  she  also  realized  what  a  friend  he  had 
always  been  to  her  and  her  children,  w^hat  a  prop  and  stay 
to  their  lives  and  fortunes.  And  she  longed  to  show  — quickly, 
then,  at  that  very  moment  —  that  her  heart  made  a  return 
of  golden  gratitude.     Driven  by  this  impulse  she  said : 

"  Theodore,  if  I  ever  can  do  anything  for  you,  help  you, 
sympathize  with  you,  in  any  sorrow  or  joy,  don't  shut  me  out. 
You  have  done  so  much  for  me,  for  us." 

He  turned  a  little  and  looked  at  her. 

"What  makes  you  say  that,  just  now,  Edna?" 

"  I  scarcely  know.     But  I  felt  —  I  don't  know " 

"Yes,  but  tell  me!" 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  481 

"  I  felt  as  if  you  had  something  very  much  on  your  mind. 
I  don't  mean  I  thought  it  was  sad.  If  there  was  a  fire  instead 
of  a  stove  how  you  would  have  been  looking  into  it  a  minute 
ago!" 

"  Yes,  that's  true." 

He  shifted  and  leaned  back  in  his  chair. 

*'  You  don't  come  often  to  Rome,"  he  said.  "  But  has  the 
complete  change  in  Doioretta's  way  of  life  ever  struck  you  as 
strange?" 

"  You  mean  her  staying  so  much  at  home?  " 

"  She  has  given  up  the  world  entirely.  She  never  touches 
a  card,  never  will  go  to  a  dance.  Even  dinners  she  never 
goes  to  unless  it  is  something  that  interests  me.  She  has 
absolutely  ceased  from  caring  for  society." 

"  Yes,  I  heard  she  scarcely  ever  went  out  now.  Dear 
mamma  has  been  iquite  upset  over  it.  You  know  she  always 
looked  upon  Dolores  as  a  sort  of  queen  in  the  Roman  world. 
But  do  you  regret  that  Dolores  has  got  sick  of  it  all  ?  " 

"No  —  oh  no!  On  the  contrary!  But  I  am  puzzled  — 
puzzled  by  it.     And  I  have  been  thinking " 

He  broke  off.  A  strange,  almost  furtive  expression  had  come 
into  his  face. 

"  You  know,  Doloretta  changed  from  the  time  we  were  to- 
gether in  Sicily,"  he  said,  after  a  rather  long  pause. 

"  She  never  took  up  her  gay  life  again  after  that?" 

"  Never.  From  the  time  we  returned  to  Rome  after  that 
visit  to  Taormina  she  has  always  seemed  to  me  a  changed 
woman." 

"  But  hovv  changed,  exactly?     Is  she  happier  or  sadder?  " 

"  She  is  stiller.  There  is  an  extraordinary  stillness  about 
her." 

Now  his  bright  eyes  seemed  questioning  Edna. 

"  She  loves  quiet.  Even  she  seems  to  love  solitude.  She  sits 
alone  for  hours.     It  —  it  really  is  strange." 

]|  She  isn't  ill?" 

"  No,  I  don't  think  so.  But  that  nurse  —  Nurse  Jennings 
—  is  very  often  with  her  when  she  doesn't  wish  to  be  alone. 
Doloretta  has  taken  her  as  a  sort  of  dame  de  compagnie  it 
seems  to  me." 

"  Is  she  a  nice  woman,  do  you  think?  I  know  her  so  little. 
And  when  I  met  her,  well,  I  couldn't  notice  things." 

"  She  seems  a  very  good  sort  of  woman,  and  simply  devoted 
to  my  wife.     But  —  but  there's  something  I  don't  understand." 


482  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Why  not  speak  frankly  to  Dolores,  if  there's  anything  that 
troubles  you?  " 

The  furtive  look  showed  more  plainly  in  his  face. 

"  No,  no.     I  couldn't  do  that." 

"To  the  nurse  then?" 

"  I  had  thought  of  that  —  but  no.  Besides,  I  don't  want 
to  make  myself  ridiculous." 

He  leaned  again  towards  the  stove.  Edna  Denzii  noticed 
that  he  changed  color.     The  blood  had  gone  to  his  face. 

"  How  ridiculous?  "  she  said,  very  simply. 

He  got  up  abruptly. 

"After  all  these  years,  I  —  I  daren't  expect " 

He  flushed  deeply. 

"Theodore!"  Edna  Denzii  exclaimed.  "Oh,  Theodore! 
You  don't  think  it  is  that!  " 

Her  face,  now  decidedly  plain,  flushed  too.  She  got  up. 
An  extraordinary  human  expression,  tenderness,  understanding, 
wonder,  quite  transfigured  her  for  a  moment,  made  her  beauti- 
ful. 

"You  really  think  —  oh,  how  glad  I  should  be!" 

"  I  don't  know.  I  can't  believe  that  —  impossible  to  know 
perhaps!  What  I  feel  is  that  perhaps  Doloretta  thinks  it. 
Lately  she  has  seemed  to  me  to  be  waiting,  always  waiting. 
There's  —  but  it  can't  be!  It  can't  be!  I'm  a  fool  to  think 
of  it." 

"  She  would  tell  you  of  course  if  she  knew." 

"  She  doesn't  know!  '*  he  said  decidedly.  "  Or,  of  course, 
she  would  have  told  me." 

"Then " 

"  Why  has  she  given  up  the  world  ?  Why  has  she  ceased 
from  caring  for  all  her  usual  pleasures  and  occupations?  Why 
does  she  take  such  care  of  herself?  " 

"Care  of  herself?" 

"  Of  her  health.  You  have  no  idea  how  she  studies  her 
health  now !  But  not  in  a  silly  way.  It's  in  a  sort  of  beautiful 
way.  It's  all  so  strange,  Edna,  all  so  strange.  If  you  knew 
how  the  apartment  seems  altered." 

"  But  when  did  you  begin  to  notice  it  all?  " 

"  Of  course  I  always  must  have  noticed  the  alteration  in 
Doloretta's  mode  of  life.  But  it's  only  quite  lately  —  within 
the  last  few  days  in  fact  —  that  I've  been  so  tremendously 
struck  with  the  whole  thing.     I  can't  understand  it." 

"  It  may  be.     I  wish  I  had  seen  Dolores  oftener  of  late." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  483 

"  You  think  you " 

"  I  don't  know.     But  sometimes  we  women " 

"Yes,  yes.     You  are  terribly  divinatory!" 

He  smiled  and  suddenly  changed  the  conversation.  A  sort 
of  reserve  took  him,  kept  him.  Edna  did  not  attempt  to  break 
through  it.       When  he  was  going  she  said: 

"  Peep  in  on  mamma  again,  just  for  a  moment.  She  will 
love  It. 

"  Of  course." 

When  he  came  back  after  some  minutes  he  said : 

"  She's  getting  on.  She's  quite  lively.  Full  of  a  paragraph 
in  the  Italie." 

"  Dear  mamma !     What  is  it  now  ?  " 

"  It  seems  Cesare  Carelli  has  delayed  his  return  from  his 
travels,  and  the  wedding  with  Donna  Ursula  Montebruno  is 
not  to  take  place  till  next  August  or  September.  The  future 
bride  has  decided  that  matter,  according  to  the  Italie/' 

"  Oh,"  said  Edna,  without  any  display  of  interest.  "  And 
where  is  Don  Cesare  ?  " 

"  Shooting  in  East  Africa,  I  believe.  Your  mother's  quite 
excited  about  it  all.  She  wonders  if  they  really  care  for  each 
other." 

They  both  laughed  a  little.     And  so  they  parted. 

Not  many  days  before  this  conversation  took  place  Dolores 
felt  for  the  first  time  the  new  life  she  held  within  her.  And 
it  was  like  the  fluttering  of  a  bird.  As  she  felt  it  she  seemed 
to  see  the  dark  shadow  of  a  bird  in  flight  pass  between  her 
and  the  stars.  She  nearly  fainted  and  lay  still.  And  she  found 
herself  thinking  of  the  old  man's  eyes  in  the  Lenbach  portrait. 
He  knew.     He  had  always  known. 

Presently  she  went  into  the  drawing-room  and  she  looked  at 
the  old  man  for  a  long  time.  As  she  turned  to  go  out  of  the 
room  she  glanced  at  the  "  Donna  guardando  il  mare."  And 
she  saw  the  white  foam  of  the  sea,  and  the  storm  coming  from 
the  horizon.  A  week  later,  when  she  was  alone  with  her  hus- 
band in  the  evening,  she  said  to  him: 

"  Would  you  mind  if  I  made  a  slight  alteration  in  my  room?  " 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  answered,  gently.  "  Which  room  do 
you  mean  ?  " 

"  My  sitting-room." 

"And  what  alteration?*' 

"  I  should  like  to  get  rid  of  that  picture  *  La  donna  guar- 
dando il  mare.'  " 


484  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  thought  you  were  fond  of  it." 

"  Yes,  in  a  way.     But  it's  a  very  sad  picture." 

"  We'll  take  it  away,  send  it  right  out  of  the  apartment." 

"  Oh  no.     You  have  it,  if  you  like." 

"What!"  he  said,  smiling,  and  still  with  exceptional  gen- 
tleness, "am  I  to  have  all  the  sad  things?" 

"  No,  no.  It's  only  that  I  don't  want  to  have  it  always 
before  me  just  now." 

*'  Doloretta!  "  he  said.  His  face  became  strongly  expressive 
almost  emotional.     "  Why  are  you  so  strange  ?  " 

She  looked  startled. 

"Strange!     I!" 

"Aren't  you?" 

"  In  what  way?  " 

"  You  have  changed  all  your  life." 

"  That !  Oh,  I  got  tired  of  all  the  parties,  society.  What 
does  it  give  one,  after  all  ?  " 

"  Very  little,  I  know.     But  once  you  seemed  to  delight  in  it." 

"  No,  never.  Not  really.  I  only  wanted  to  fill  up  my 
time." 

"  And  you  don't  need  to  fill  up  your  time  now  ?  Why  is 
that?" 

She  looked  at  him.  She  saw  at  once  what  his  thought  was. 
She  looked  down.  Should  she  tell  him  now,  at  once?  She  had 
not  meant  to  tell  him  perhaps  for  another  month.  But  was  it 
not  best  to  give  him  the  truth  he  seemed  already  to  have  di- 
vined ?     She  stood  still,  looking  down  always. 

"  Why  is  that?  "  he  repeated. 

He  came  closer  to  her.  He  took  her  hand.  Then  he  took 
her  into  his  arms. 

"  Doloretta  —  is  it?     Can  it  be?  " 

She  did  not  speak. 

"After  all  these  years?" 

He  heard  a  strange  voice  say: 

"Yes." 

She  felt  his  lips  on  her  hair,  kissing  her,  with  reverence. 


CHAPTER  XL 

From  that  moment  when  her  husband  knew,  the  life  of  Do- 
lores was  strangely  altered.     All   that  she  had   lost,   or  had 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  485 

seemed  to  lose,  she  had  again,  and  much  more.  Sir  Theodore 
was  concentrated  upon  her,  as  he  had  never  been  even  in  the 
first  days  of  their  married  life.  Then  she  had  been  to  him  the 
girl  whom  he  loved.  Now  she  was  a  precious  thing,  an  ex- 
quisite mystery  and  wonder,  life  within  life  to  be  doubly  wor- 
shiped, doubly  cherished.  Already  he  adored  in  her  not  only 
his  wife  but  his  child.  His  kiss  upon  her  hair  had  been  reveren- 
tial. From  that  day  his  treatment  of  her  was  reverential.  His 
joy  now  was  in  proportion  to  the  sorrow  he  had  endured  in 
his  long  disappointment.     He  was  a  changed  man. 

At  once  the  family  at  Frascati  took  the  second  place  in  his 
affections.  He  loved  Edna  and  the  children  still.  He  went 
to  them  still.  They  did  not  suffer  neglect  at  his  hands. 
They  had  become  and  would  remain  part  of  his  life.  But  they 
were  not  his  own.  And  now,  with  the  radiant  instinct  of  the 
monopolist,  he  was  looking  forward,  and  his  heart  held  the  two 
precious  words,  "  My  own."  Often  he  found  himself  repeating 
them,  with  an  addition  — "  My  own  son,"  "  my  own  daugh- 
ter," "  my  own  child." 

Dolores  had  what  she  had  yearned  for,  the  almost  exclusive 
love  of  her  husband.  But  the  fact  that  she  possessed  it  only 
through  hypocrisy  tarnished  the  gift.  Even  as  Theo  had  kissed 
her  hair  she  had  known  that  it  was  to  be  so.  She  had  sinned 
with  an  object.  With  the  attainment  of  that  object  she  compre- 
hended the  punishment  attached  to  the  sin.  Theo  poured  forth 
his  love  on  the  woman  she  was  not.  The  woman  she  was  suf- 
fered under  that  outpouring.  It  was  so  beautiful,  but  it  was 
not  hers,  not  really  hers.  It  belonged  to  the  woman  she  had 
been. 

She  was  no  longer  afraid  of  events.  She  did  not  fear  Prin- 
cess Mancelli,  Cesare.  The  incident  at  Olevanto  had  not  de- 
stroyed her  in  the  eyes  of  the  world.  She  did  not  now  believe 
that  she  ever  would  be  so  destroyed.  All  that  she  had  once 
dreaded  unspeakably  in  connection  with  Montebruno's  suicide 
had  never  come  to  pass.  The  Princess  had  held  her  hand  from 
vengeance.  And  now  she  had  surely  no  reason  for  vengeance. 
Cesare  was  far  away  and  he  was  engaged  to  Donna  Ursula. 
He  had  passed  out  of  the  life  of  Dolores  as  a  lover. 

But  he  remained  in  her  life  as  a  father,  the  father  of  the 
child  that  was  soon  to  be  born. 

Sometimes  Dolores  felt  as  if  he  must  know,  almost  as  if 
he  were  near  to  her.  Sometimes  she  felt  as  if  she  had  wronged 
him  even   more  terribly  than  she  had  wronged  her  husband. 


4^6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

She  might  have  sunk  under  the  torture  of  her  own  unworthl- 
ness  but  for  her  m^^stical  sense  of  her  own  greatness,  a  sense 
which  had  never  abandoned  her  since  the  moment  when  the  new 
life  had  faintly  fluttered  within  her. 

The  child  took  her  hand  and  was  with  her  in  the  great 
darkness.     And  she  concentrated  herself  upon  the  child. 

Sir  Theodore  had  said  that  she  was  strangely  still.  Now 
she  sank  down  into  a  deeper  stillness. 

She  saw  very  few  people.  She  took  no  part  in  the  feverish 
life  of  the  Roman  season.  Her  husband  had  asked  her  whether 
she  wished  to  leave  Rome,  to  go  to  the  Riviera,  to  England, 
now,  at  once.  She  refused.  She  felt  that  the  child  for  which 
she  had  longed  so  passionately  in  Rome  and  for  which  she  had 
sinned,  must  be  born  there,  in  the  house  where  her  husband  had 
broken  the  long  silence,  and  had  shown  to  her  the  emptiness 
of  his  heart.  He  assumed  that  of  course  when  the  child  was 
born  they  would  be  elsewhere. 

"  We  will  choose  some  delicious  hom.e,  Doloretta,"  he  said, 
"  where  you  can  look  on  lovely  things,  where  you  won't  feel  the 
heat  of  July." 

She  did  not  tell  him  that  probably  her  child  would  not  be 
born  in  July,  and  that  the  place  of  its  birth  must  surely  be  Rome. 
But  she  told  Nurse  Jennings  that  she  meant  to  stay  in  Rom.e 
till  the  child  was  born. 

"  Why  ever  should  you  do  that?  "  said  Nurse  Jennings.  "  It 
would  be  much  better  on  all  accounts  to  be  In  some  quieter, 
fresher  place.     And  besides "  she  stopped. 

"Yes?"  said  Dolores.     "Besides  what,  nurse?" 

"  Besides  I  should  have  thought  that,  with  all  that's  hap- 
pened, you  would  be  much  happier  away  at  such  a  time." 

"  That  doesn't  matter." 

"What  doesn't?" 

"  About  my  being  happier.  But  I  can't  argue  about  it.  I 
feel  it  must  take  place  here.  In  my  home." 

"Yes,  my  dear?"  said  Nurse  Jennings  gently.  "Well,  It's 
natural  you  should  have  your  fancies  at  such  a  time.  And 
they've  got  to  be  humored.  You  want  to  be  happy  where  3'Ou've 
heen  unhappy.     I  see," 

She  did  not  see.  But  Dolores  did  not  attempt  an  exact 
explanation. 

The  days  grew  warmer  as  spring  approached,  and  Dolores 
often  drove  out  to  enjoy  the  sun.  Sir  Theodore  usually  accom- 
panied her,  but  one  day  she  went  alone  in  the  victoria.     It 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  487 

was  a  Monday.  There  would  be  no  music  on  the  PIncio. 
She  told  the  coachman  to  take  a  turn  in  the  Villa  Borghese, 
and  then  go  to  the  Pincio  and  draw  up  on  the  terrace  before 
the  kiosk.  Had  the  band  been  playing  she  would  not  have 
gone  there.  She  disliked  crowds,  the  crush  of  carriages  and 
motors,  the  noise  of  popular  airs,  anything  in  fact  that  troubled 
the  stillness  in  which  she  desired  perpetually  to  live. 

There  were  many  people  walking.  But  when  she  arrived  on 
the  terrace  she  found  few  carriages.  The  sky  was  cloudless, 
the  sun  brilliant.  When  the  horses  stopped  she  sat  for  some 
time,  almost  dreaming,  in  the  carriage. 

But  presently  she  felt  more  vivid,  more  conscious.  And 
she  remembered  Nero.  Here  she  had  sat  with  the  dog  on  her 
knee.  She  could  almost  see  his  domed  head,  his  sulky  and  sticky 
eyes,  the  uneasy  movement  of  his  blunt  and  humid  nose. 

When  she  thought  of  the  dog  she  no  longer  regretted  her 
sin.  She  could  not  regret  it,  though  she  felt  as  if  she  were 
earnestly  trying  to.  Cesare,  even  Theo,  sank  away  into  an 
obscure  twilight.  Only  the  child  remained  with  her.  And 
she  thought  again,  "  Yes,  it  had  to  be  born.  We  know  scarcely 
anything,  or  nothing.  But  some  one  knows  for  us.  Some  one 
has  known  for  me.     Plis  world,  perhaps,  needs  my  little  child." 

Then  she  asked  herself,  "  Am  I  immoral  to  think  like  this?  " 

And  she  could  not  decide.  Even  she  did  not  care.  The 
child  had  hold  of  her  soul. 

A  veiled  voice  spoke  at  her  side.  She  did  not  hear  it.  In 
a  moment  it  spoke  again. 

"  You  won't  know  me  any  more!     What  have  I  done?  " 

Dolores  heard  it  now  and  turned  round. 

"Lady  Sally!" 

"  Yes,  it  is  I !     Come  back  to  Rome  at  last." 

"  I  knew  you  had  been  away,"  Dolores  said,  vaguely. 

"  All  the  winter.  My  brother-in-law  wanted  me  in  Eng- 
land." 

"  Doctor  Ides?     But  do  get  in  for  a  little." 

Lady  Sarah  stepped  into  the  carriage. 

"  It  is  nice  and  quiet  to-day,"  said  Dolores. 

She  looked  at  Lady  Sarah. 

*'  Do  you  remember  a  day,  long  ago,  when  I  told  you  some- 
thing here?  " 

"  Yes,  very  well." 

The  kind  gray  eyes  searched  the  face  of  Dolores  for  a  mo- 
ment. 


488  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  I  have  something  to  tell  you  now." 

"  Is  it  good  news  ?  "  asked  Lady  Sarah. 

And  surely  doubt  crept  into  her  voice. 

"  It  is  this  —  I  am  going  to  have  what  I  longed  for." 

"  My  dear !  "  said  Lady  Sarah,  almost  in  a  whisper. 

Her  hand  sought  the  hand  of  Dolores,  pressed  it,  held  it. 
But  the  kind  eyes  again  searched  the  face  of  her  friend.  And 
presently  her  clasp  relaxed. 

She  said  nothing  more.  Dolores  Immediately  spoke  of  other, 
indifferent  things.  And  Lady  Sarah  did  not  attempt  to  lead 
the  conversation  back  to  the  only  subject.  But  when  the  day 
was  waning,  and  the  Angelus  rang  in  the  towers  of  Rome,  she 
said  to  Dolores: 

"  Now  we  are  going  to  the  church  of  the  Sacre  Coeur,  are 
not  we?  " 

"  Yes,  to-day  I  will  go." 

They  drove  to  the  church.  They  entered.  They  kneeled 
down  side  by  side.  And  while  the  nuns  sang  Dolores  prayed 
for  the  coming  child,  that  its  life  might  be  happy,  forever  shel- 
tered from  sin  and  from  every  trouble. 

But  Lady  Sarah  still  prayed  for  the  soul  of  Dolores. 

After  that  day  Lady  Sarah  sometimes  came  to  sit  with  Dolo- 
res. She  was  very  kind,  even  tender  in  her  manner,  and  Dolo- 
res almost  loved  her.  But  Dolores  was  never  quite  at  ease 
with  her.  She  knew  that  the  goodness  of  this  singularly  pure 
and  transparently  sincere  nature  had  felt  the  touch  of  some- 
thing which  caused  it,  in  despite  almost  of  itself,  to  recoil.  And 
she  was  punished  by  this  recoil.  iWhat  Lady  Sarah  suspected, 
whether  she  suspected  anything,  Dolores  did  not  know.  But 
she  felt  that  there  was  now  a  thin  barrier  between  them.  Some- 
times she  longed  to  overstep  it^  she  longed  to  be  sincere.  She 
felt  that,  if  she  did  speak,  Lady  Sarah  had  a  heart  as  well  as  a 
brain  that  could  understand.  But  she  knew  that  Lady  Sarah 
would  say,  "  You  must  tell  your  husband."  And  she  knew 
that  never  could  she  tell  Theo.  Rather  would  she  He  to  the 
end,  though  her  whole  nature  hated  lies. 

All  her  life  now  was  a  lie.  Yet  she  was  able  to  endure  it. 
For  she  was  able  already  to  live  for  her  child.  With  a  reso- 
lute, an  almost  inflexible  will  she  banished  from  her  mind  all 
that  might  too  greatly  trouble  her  peace  and  so  do  harm  to  the 
child.  At  first  she  had  often  much  difficulty  In  keeping  herself 
within  the  circle  of  calm  which  must  aid  the  coming  life.  But 
day  by  day  her  power  of  self -governance  increased.     Day  by 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  489 

day  the  mother  in  her  became  more  dominant.  Her  husband 
noticed  a  dawning  change  in  her,  and  one  night  he  said,  almost 
with  a  touch  of  whimsical  jealousy: 

"  I  have  had  you  to  myself  all  these  years,  and  now,  do  you 
know  what  I  think  sometimes?" 

"What,  Theo?"  she  said. 

"  I  think  I  am  going  to  lose  you." 

She  looked  at  him  with  a  sudden  intense  gravity, 

"Lose  me!     How?" 

"But — 'what  is  the  matter?     Why  do  you  look  like  that?" 

"  To-day  when  I  was  driving  I  went  to  San  Lorenzo." 

"Why  there?     To  visit  the  church?" 

"  No,  I  went  into  the  Campo  Santo." 

"  What  made  you  do  that?     Was  it  wise?  " 

"  I  don't  know  that  it  was.  But  I  felt  obliged  to  go.  While 
I  was  there  I  saw  a  monument.  It  was  a  woman  lying  dead. 
A  little  child  was  pulling  at  her  hand.  Underneath  was  writ- 
ten '  Mamma  dort' " 

He  was  silent  for  a  moment.  An  expression  of  keen  anxiety 
had  come  into  his  face  and  his  eyes  were  fixed  upon  her. 

"What  has  such  a  monument  to  do  with  us?"  at  last  he 
said,  almost  harshly. 

"  Nothing.     But  what  did  you  mean  just  now?  " 

"  I  meant  that  you  must  not  be  too  much  mother  to  be 
wife.  I  have  heard  of  men  becoming  jealous  of  their  own 
children." 

"  You  could  never  be  that." 

"No.     But "     He  lowered  his  voice.     "But  you  know 

how  much  I  love  you." 

Her  lips  formed  a  word  which  he  could  not  hear.  It  was, 
"  Now." 

"What  did  you  say,  Doloretta?"  he  asked. 

She  looked  at  him  steadily. 

"  You  must  let  me  be  as  I  wish  to  be  all  these  days,  Theo," 
she  said.  "  I  want  to  be  such  a  mother  as  there  has  never  been 
before." 

She  said  the  last  words  almost  with  passion. 

"  I  must  be  that!  "  she  added. 

She  was  seized  with  a  longing  to  expiate  her  sin,  to  buy  back 
at  any  price,  however  great,  her  lost  virtue.  That  night  she 
prayed. 

"Let  me  suffer!"  she  prayed.  "Let  my  travail  be  bitter 
with  my  child.     Let  me  pass  through  the  darkness.     I  deserve 


490  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

it.  I  deserve  the  greatest  punishment.  But  let  me  have  peace, 
joy  with  the  child  w^hen  it  comes." 

After  she  had  prayed  she  felt  that  she  ought  not  to  expect 
to  have  peace,  joy  of  a  child  begotten  in  sin.  Yet  somehow  she 
did  not  then  fear  the  future.  She  felt  as  if  the  child  must  be 
to  her  as  a  light  banishing  the  darkness  in  which  for  so  long 
she  had  lived. 

She  had  sinned  for  Theo. 

But  surely  she  had  conceived  the  child  for  herself. 

As  the  days  drew  on  she  was  beset  by  the  egoism  of  the 
mother,  an  egoism  partially  animal.  Less  often  now  did  she 
think  of  the  coming  child  in  connection  with  the  world. 

"  It  is  for  me,"  she  sometimes  said  to  herself.  "  It  had  to 
be  born  for  me." 

About  this  time  Cesare  Carelli  took  ship  at  an  East  African 
port  to  return  to  Italy  and  Donna  Ursula. 


CHAPTER  XLI 

Cesare  arrived  in  Europe  at  the  beginning  of  June.  Physi- 
cally he  was  in  splendid  health,  thin,  lithe,  hard,  keen,  burnt 
by  the  sun  almost  to  the  color  of  a  desert  Arab.  He  looked 
more  male  even  than  when  he  had  quitted  Italy.  And  he 
looked  years  older.  His  mental  health  had  not  kept  pace  with 
his  bodily  condition.  In  the  superbly  sound  body  there  was 
housed  an  embittered  soul.  Dolores'  treatment  of  him  had 
stung  into  alertness  all  that  was  worst  in  his  strong  nature. 
He  had  left  Italy  an  almost  desperate  man.  He  returned  to 
Italy  a  hard  man,  cynical,  careless  of  the  happiness  of  those 
about  him ;  not  unready,  perhaps  almost  anxious,  to  wound,  res- 
olutely selfish,  a  determined  egoist.  One  woman  had  taken 
him  when  he  did  not  really  love  her,  had  kept  him  like  a  prey 
v/hen  he  was  struggling  to  get  free  from  her,  had  driven  him 
almost  to  despair  by  her  love.  Another,  whom  he  passionately 
loved,  had  taken  him  and  immediately  flung  him  away.  He 
was  resolved  to  hate  all  wom.en.  He  believed  that  he  hated 
Dolores.  He  said  to  himself  that  he  had  been  a  fool,  that 
those  men  are  right  who  put  women  on  a  low  plane,  who  even 
deny  to  them  souls.  Nerves,  uneasy  sharp  vanity,  an  animal 
desire  to  please,  the  craft  of  low  natures,  sensuality,  even  feroc- 
ity when  their  passions  are  roused  —  such  are  the  attributes  of 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  491 

women.  So  Cesare  reiterated  to  himself.  Henceforth  they 
should  be  to  him  as  are  the  women  of  the  East  to  their  Eastern 
masters,  ministers  to  his  pleasure,  perhaps  often  base.  But 
they  should  be  nothing  more.  Into  his  real  life  they  should 
not  enter.  Not  one  should  ever  again  even  suspect  his  best 
part,  that  part  which  knew  how  to  love  and  to  suffer.  He 
would  marry  the  greatest  dot  in  Italy.  A  woman  should  make 
his  material  life  something  for  his  friends  and  acquaintances  to 
wonder  at  and  desire.  Women  had  used  him.  Now  he  would 
use  them. 

He  returned  to  his  country  alertly  at  his  worst. 

Donna  Ursula  had  quitted  Rome  and  was  staying  with  his 
people  in  Lombardy.  The  date  and  the  details  of  his  marriage 
were  now  to  be  decided.  Little  Donna  Ursula  had  what  is 
called  "  a  level  head,"  and  was  far  too  sure  of  herself  ever  to 
be  in  a  fuss.  But  she  considered  that  the  time  had  arrived  for 
her  to  take  Cesare.  He  had  been  amusing  himself  long  enough. 
From  henceforth  he  must  think  about  amusing  her. 

When  he  reached  Genoa  he  found  telegrams  informing  him 
that  he  was  expected  at  the  Castello  near  Monza,  He  read 
them,  re-read  them,  and  instead  of  getting  into  the  train  for 
Milan  he  got  into  the  train  for  R.ome. 

"  By  God !  "  he  said  to  himself.  "  They  shall  see  I'm  not 
tied  to  a  string,  to  be  pulled  wherever  they  choose !  " 

At  least  he  had  been  free  in  East  Africa.  Already  he  felt 
the  shackles  of  civilized  life  weighing  upon  him.  Instinctively 
he  braced  himself  up  to  fling  them  off  with  a  hardy  fierceness. 

"  I'll  go  to  jMonza  when  I  choose,"  he  thought.  "  Not  a 
minute  before." 

In  far  away  regions  it  seemed  that  he  had  lost  the  well-bred 
Roman's  care  for  the  convenances. 

He  arrived  in  Rome.  The  season  was  over.  Many  people 
had  already  gone  away  to  the  lakes  and  elsewhere.  But  there 
were  still  some  left.  Cesare  went  to  the  club  and  was  soon 
surrounded,  soon  heard  much  of  the  gossip  of  Rome.  But  he 
did  not  chance  to  hear  anything  about  the  Cannynges.  And 
he  did  not  choose  to  make  any  inquiries  about  them.  The  men 
whom  he  met  were  mostly  Romans  and  chattered  of  Roman 
doings. 

He  wrote  to  his  people  that  he  was  detained  for  two  or  three 
days  by  important  business.  He  wrote  to  Donna  Ursula  po- 
litely. He  had  never  pretended  to  any  love  for  her.  She  had 
meant  to  marry  him.     In  a  fit  of  rage  and  of  wounded  pride 


492  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

he  had  given  her  to  understand  that  he  would  be  her  husband 
—  some  day.  That  was  quite  enough  for  her.  And  of  course 
he  meant  to  carry  out  his  part  of  the  bargain.  Nevertheless 
this  return  to  Rome,  after  his  long  absence,  made  a  strong  im- 
pression upon  Cesare,  almost  against  his  will.  It  recalled  many 
memories,  of  Lisetta  and  his  escape,  of  Dolores  and  his  passion. 
As  he  looked  up,  and  saw  the  line  of  the  Academy  of  France 
cutting  the  brilliant  blue,  he  remembered  the  fireflies  in  a  gar- 
den by  night.  As  he  heard  the  bells  of  Rome  he  remembered 
the  bells  ringing  in  the  valley  beneath  the  terrace  of  Casa  Tru- 
schi.  And  the  city  in  which  he  had  been  born  caressed  him 
and  chastised  him,  woke  again  the  gentler  part  of  his  nature, 
yet  at  the  same  time  stirred  the  fierceness  within  him  till  it 
glowed  with  a  stronger  life.  It  was  as  if  some  one  moved  the 
embers.  Through  the  crust  of  his  hardness  wrath  broke  forth 
once  more.  But  beneath  the  wrath  was  hidden  a  softness  of 
longing,  though  he  would  have  denied  it. 

Two  days  after  his  arrival,  towards  evening,  when  he  was 
walking  along  the  Corso,  and  was  near  to  Aragno's,  he  met  Sir 
Theodore  Cannynge. 

"Hullo,  Don  Cesare!"  said  Sir  Theodore. 

His  voice  was  cordial.  He  held  out  his  hand.  Cesare  was 
^immediately  struck  by  a  change  in  him.  Happiness,  a  joyous 
•expectation,  shed  through  him  something  that  was  almost  like  a 
renewal  of  youth.  His  eyes,  always  bright,  beamed  with  con- 
tentment. His  deep  and.  melodious  voice  was  resonant  with  a 
strong  satisfaction.  And  immediately  Cesare's  mind  bristled 
with  a  curiosity  in  which  there  was  an  alloy  of  suspicion. 

"  You've  been  away  a  long  time,  I  suppose?  "  said  Sir  Theo- 
dore. 

"  Some  months.     And  you  are  in  Rome  so  late?" 

*'  Yes.     We  aren't  leaving  just  yet." 

It  seemed  to  Cesare  that  Sir  Theodore  looked  at  him  with 
expectation.     Of  what? 

*'  I  was  going  to  have  a  cup  of  coffee  at  Aragno's,"  Sir  Theo- 
dore continued. 

"  I'll  come  with  you,  if  you'll  allow  me." 

"  Do." 

They  sat  down  on  a  couple  of  chairs  by  a  table  outside  the 
caffe  and  gave  their  order. 

"I  hope  Lady  Cannynge  is  quite  well?"  said  Cesare  for- 
mally. 

A  surprised  expression  showed  in  Sir  Theodore's  eyes. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  493 

"There  is  something  I  don't  know,"  Cesare  thought. 
"  Something  he  thinks  I  know !  " 

"  Thank  you,"  Sir  Theodore  said,  with  a  slight  touch  of 
reserve  and  hesitation.     "  Thank  you!     Oh,  here's  the  coffee." 

He  busied  himself  with  it  for  a  moment.     Then  he  said: 

"  How  long  have  you  been  back?  " 

"  A  couple  of  days." 

"Only  that!     I  see." 

"  I've  heard  little  or  nothing  of  all  that's  been  happening  in 
my  absence.  There  isn't  anything  very  extraordinary,  I  sup- 
pose, that  I  ought  to  know?  " 

Almost  unconsciously  he  fixed  his  black  eyes  on  Sir  Theo- 
dore with  a  scrutiny  which  was  unusual,  which  was  perhaps 
scarcely  pardonable.  It  showed  too  plainly  the  suspicion  which 
now  had  hold  of  him,  and  which  he  himself  did  not  understand. 

"  Only  the  usual  marriages,  deaths  and  births,  I  believe," 
Sir  Theodore  replied,  with  a  certain  new  carelessness. 

He  began  to  talk  more  rapidly,  but  with  less  vivacity,  of 
casual  topics  of  the  day.  And  as  soon  as  they  had  drunk  their 
coflFee  the  two  men  got  up  and  parted. 

But  Cesare  now  believed  that  he  knew  what  Sir  Theodore 
had  not  told  him.  His  mind  had  surely  darted  upon  the  truth. 
But  he  must  find  out,  he  would  find  out  at  once,  whether  the 
surmise  which  filled  him  with  an  excitement  that  was  almost 
ungovernable  was  well  founded  or  not.  And  If  It  were!  If 
it  were! 

Fate  favored  him.  The  next  day  by  chance  he  met  la 
vecchia.  Lady  Sarah  Ides.  He  saw  her  before  she  was  aware 
of  him,  and  his  resolution  was  immediately  taken.  He  went 
up  to  her,  greeted  her,  and  walked  quietly  along  beside  her. 
After  talking  for  a  few  minutes  of  his  travels  and  sports,  he 
said: 

"  Now  I'm  trying  to  gather  up  the  threads  again,  meeting 
some  of  my  friends.  Yesterday  I  had  coffee  at  Aragno's  with 
Sir  Theodore  Cannynge." 

"Did  you?" 

"How  well  and  jolly  he  looks,  years  younger!     I  suppose 

this  unexpected  event "  He  paused,  with  his  eyes  on  her 

face. 

Had  his  arrow  hit  the  mark? 

"You  mean  —  his  hopes?"  said  Lady  Sarah. 

"Of  course!" 

"You  have  heard  of  them  already?" 


494  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

There  was  a  sound  of  doubt,  almost  of  distrust,  in  her  voice. 

*'  .Well,  one  hears  rumors.  And  directly  I  saw  him  I  knew 
they  were  well  founded.  As  the  English  say,  he  gave  it  away. 
'His  whole  look,  manner,  seemed  to  me  to  proclaim  great  tid- 
ings." 

"  Really!  I  should  hardly  have  thought  Sir  Theodore  would 
be  so  exuberant.     .Well,  I  am  turning  off  here." 

"  Let  us  hope  it  v/ill  be  a  son,"  said  Cesare. 

He  took  off  his  hat  and  left  her.  She  walked  on  slowly. 
The  face  under  her  thin  veil,  put  on  awry  as  usual,  was  very 
grave  and  troubled. 

As  soon  as  he  had  left  her  Cesare  walked  swiftly  home. 
He  shut  himself  in  alone,  and  told  his  servant  that  he  would 
dine  at  home  in  his  library  and  that  he  was  not  in  casa  to 
any  one. 

The  library  Vv'as  the  room  in  which  he  had  received  Nurse 
Jennings.  He  went  into  it  now,  sat  down  on  the  great  black 
sofa  and  stared  at  the  floor.  But  he  only  sat  thus  for  a  mo- 
ment. Then  he  sprang  up,  went  into  the  adjoining  bedroom, 
unlocked  a  red-leather  despatch-box  in  which  he  kept  things 
that  he  specially  valued,  opened  it,  searched  for  a  moment, 
then  drew  out  a  key.  He  relocked  the  box,  took  the  key,  and 
returned  to  the  sofa  in  the  further  room.  There  he  flung  him- 
self down  with  violence  and  stared  at  the  small  object  in  his 
hand.  His  heavy  brows  came  down  over  his  eyes.  His  face 
began  to  work.  He  set  his  teeth  together.  But  his  lower  jaw 
quivered.     Furiously  he  grasped  it  with  his  left  hand. 

The  latchkey  that  had  belonged  to  Dolores!  It  had  made 
all  the  African  journey  with  him.  H  the  happy  man  he  had 
met  in  the  Corso  knew  that  he  possessed  it !     The  happy  man ! 

Sir  Theodore's  face  rose  up  before  Cesare.  He  saw  the 
bright  eyes  full  at  first  of  expectation.  He  had  been  expected 
to  utter  his  congratulations,  no  doubt,  he,  the  father  of  the 
child  that  was  about  to  be  born ! 

Not  for  a  moment  did  Cesare  doubt  the  paternity  of  the 
coming  child.  He  knew  it  was  his.  All  his  body  and  all  his 
soul  declared  it  to  him  as  he  sat  there  looking  at  the  key  in 
his  hand.  And  that  man  with  the  silvered  hair  whom  he  had 
met  in  the  Corso,  that  man  v/ho  had  been  a  childless  husband 
for  more  than  ten  years,  that  old  man,  was  he  to  —  By  God, 
no !     That  would  be  too  much ! 

Cesare  thrust  the  key  into  his  pocket  and  began  to  pace  his 
room.     This  new  fact  had  brought  back  all  the  almost  sacred 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  495 

energy  of  his  bitterness,  sacred  because  it  was  surely  the  part  of 
a  man  treated  as  he  had  been  to  rise  up  in  revolt.  Treated  as  he 
had  been!  But  the  whole  matter  was  not  in  the  past.  The 
present,  the  abominable  present  was  with  him  calling  his  man- 
hood to  arms,  to  action.  He  had  returned  in  bitterness.  But 
he  had  returned  having,  as  he  supposed,  forever  closed  his  life 
against  Dolores.  Now  she  entered  it  again  bringing  a  child, 
his  child,  with  her.  She  thought,  perhaps,  that  she  was  without, 
but  it  was  not  true.  The  child  brought  her  into  his  life  defi- 
nitely, whether  with,  or  against,  his  will. 

What  was  he  going  to  do  ? 

The  afternoon  closed  in.  The  evening  fell.  The  night  ap- 
proached. And  the  hours  had  fled  by  Cesare  with  a  swiftness 
he  only  realized  when  his  servant  came  in  to  lay  the  dinner 
table. 

"What?  Is  It  eight?"  he  said,  with  an  almost  startled 
movement. 

"  Five  minutes  to  eight,  Eccellenza." 

"  Very  well." 

He  went  to  his  bedroom  and  washed  his  face  and  hands  In 
cold  water.  He  did  not  change  his  clothes,  but  dined  quickly 
just  as  he  was,  ordered  coffee,  got  rid  of  his  man,  and  was 
alone  once  more.  But  now  it  was  night  and  he  felt  much  more 
alone. 

A  child  —  his  child  —  the  child  of  himself  and  Dolores! 
He  brooded  over  that  thought  in  a  darkness  lit  only  by  the 
flaming  end  of  his  cigar,  and  by  the  pallor  of  the  hot  black 
night  at  the  open  window.  This  fact  changed  everything.  He 
had  resigned  the  woman.  But  he  was  resolved  not  to  resign 
the  child.  It  was  not  that  he  felt  as  yet  at  his  heart-strings 
the  tug  of  fatherhood.  He  was  too  conscious  of  being  wronged 
to  be  tender.  What  he  felt  was  that  there  was  a  conspiracy 
against  him  to  keep  what  was  his,  what  was  more  absolutely 
his  than  anything  he  had  hitherto  possessed.  And  he  was  not 
the  man  to  be  the  tame  victim  of  such  a  conspiracy. 

He  did  not  know  what  he  would  do.  But  he  did  know  that 
he  was  not  going  to  let  the  man  he  had  met  in  the  Corso  father 
his  child.  There  must  be  a  way  out.  He  could  not  find  it. 
He  wondered  when  the  child  was  going  to  be  born.  His  mind 
went  back  to  Olevano. 

Excitement  increased  in  him.  He  ceased  from  brooding. 
The  flaming  mind  cannot  brood  for  long. 

If  he  could  see  Dolores  alone!     He  thought  again  of  the 


496  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

latchkey.  With  It  he  could  enter  the  apartment  of  Palazzo 
Barbenni  at  anj'^  hour  of  the  day.  But  Cannynge  was  there. 
If  only  he  would  leave  Rome,  even  for  a  day!  But  Cesare 
remembered  his  face,  his  manner.  No,  he  would  not  go.  He 
was  waiting  on  the  threshold  of  fatherhood! 

Cesare  broke  into  a  laugh  letting  his  cigar  fall  on  the  floor. 
The  irony  of  the  whole  business!  He  picked  up  the  cigar  and 
went  to  the  window.  He  stood  by  it  for  a  long  time  leaning 
out,  and  looking  down  into  the  deserted  courtyard  of  the  palace. 

And  Donna  Ursula? 

When  he  thought  of  her  Cesare  realized  that  the  incident  of 
the  child  had  hurried  him  back,  as  if  along  the  ways  of  the  past, 
towards  the  woman  he  had  loved.  He  could  not  now  say  to 
himself  that  he  hated  Dolores.  No.  And  suddenly  his  real 
desire  leaped  up  in  his  mind,  whole,  almost  barbarously  simple. 

What  he  wanted  to  do  was  this,  to  come  forward  openly, 
ruin  Dolores  In  the  eyes  of  her  husband  and  the  world,  and  then 
take  possession  of  her  and  of  the  child.  He  wanted  them  to  be 
cast  out.  Till  they  were  he  could  not  give  them  shelter.  His 
child  he  would  have.  On  that  he  was  resolved.  And  the 
mother  —  did  she  not,  must  she  not  go  with  the  child? 

It  was  not  done  with,  that  episode  which  had  culminated 
at  Olevano.  He  had  accepted  his  dismissal  from  the  woman. 
But  fate  was  working  against  the  woman. 

If  only  he  could  see  Dolores  alone! 

He  lingered  on  in  Rome  through  the  sunny  days  of  June. 
His  mother  wrote  at  first  plaintively,  then  indignantly  urging 
him  to  come  to  them  In  Lombardy. 

"  If  this  sort  of  thing  continues,"  she  wrote,  "  you  will  lose 
Ursula.  No  girl  will  stand  such  treatment,  and  Ursula  has 
a  great  deal  of  character.  Think  what  such  a  loss  would  mean. 
She  is  the  best  match  In  Italy,  and  one  of  the  best  In  Europe. 
Come  to  us  at  once." 

But  since  he  had  met  Sir  Theodore,  Donna  Ursula,  with  her 
primrose-colored  hair,  her  staring  blue  eyes  of  a  doll,  had  be- 
come as  nothing  to  Cesare.  Once  she  had  meant  to  him  a  com- 
pact little  will,  at  least  that.  But  now  she  faded  into  those 
shadows  which  shroud  the  spectres  of  the  real. 

She  did  not  write.  But  though  she  was  deeply  offended, 
even  indignant  In  a  cold  way,  she  was  waiting.  Cesare  had  got 
to  be  hers.  That  was  how  she  put  it  to  herself.  And  hers  he 
was  certainly  going  to  be. 

In  the  past  Cesare  had  proved  that  despite  the  secret  vehe- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  497 

mence  of  his  temperament  he  could  be  patient.  He  had  once 
been  patient  with  Dolores.  And  now,  in  the  lengthening  days, 
he  forced  himself  to  be  patient  for  his  child.  He  looked  at 
the  latchkey  but  he  did  not  use  it.  He  never  called  at  Palazzo 
Earberini.     He  trampled  the  flames  in  his  heart.     He  waited. 

And,  in  an  old  palace  of  Rome,  a  woman  was  waiting  too 
for  the  birth  of  the  coming  child. 

This  woman  was  Princess  Mancelli.  She  only  suspected 
what  Cesare  was  so  sure  of.  Her  jealousy  suspected.  If  at 
the  appointed  time  —  the  time  she  had  calculated  —  the  child 
was  born,  she  was  resolved  to  stay  her  hand  no  longer.  She 
did  not  reason.  She  had  reasoned.  She  had  held  her  hand. 
The  lovers  had  been  divided,  the  engagement  between  Donna 
Ursula  and  Cesare  brought  about.  But  now  the  surface  of 
things  was  changed. 

She  had  heard  of  Cesare's  return  from  Africa.  She  knew  he 
was  in  Rome.  She  knew  he  had  not  visited  Lombardy  or  taken 
the  trouble  to  greet  his  fiancee. 

So  the  end  was  not  yet.  Her  action,  it  seemed,  had  not  ac- 
complished all  that  she  had  intended  it  to  accomplish.  Her 
jealousy  wove  combinations  which  kept  her  sleepless  by  night. 
She  saw  herself  tricked  by  the  woman  with  the  wistful  eyes, 
whom  she  had  studied,  whom  she  had  striven  to  sum  up,  whom 
she  had  certainly  never  penetrated,  never  comprehended.  In 
that  apparent  gentleness  of  Dolores  Cannynge  there  must  be 
hidden  a  hard  will.  Beneath  the  seeming  sincerity  there  must 
lurk  the  heart  of  a  clever  trickster.  The  Princess  remembered 
their  conversation  when  Pacci  came,  and  her  remark  to  Do- 
lores, "  Perhaps  you  know  how  to  jouer  le  monde  far  better 
than  we  Latins  do  despite  our  apparent  suppleness  of  mind." 
She  remembered,  too,  that  murmured  sentence  of  her  visitor, 
"  To  get  and  —  to  keep."  It  had  touched  her  on  the  raw  then. 
But  now  the  remembrance  of  it  seared  her  as  if  a  hot  iron 
was  applied  to  wounds  that  were  open.  Those  words,  combined 
with  recent  events,  seemed  to  tell  her  plainly  that  she  had  been 
deliberately  played  with,  that  Dolores  had  only  seemed  to 
relinquish  Cesare  at  her  —  the  Princess's  —  bidding;  that  every- 
thing, his  engagement,  his  departure,  his  long  absence,  the  new 
"  honeymoon  "  of  the  Cannynges  which  had  been  observed  by 
all  Rome,  everything  which  had  occurred  to  reassure  her  had 
been  merely  part  of  an  elaborate  plan  to  throw  dust  in  her 
jealous  and  scrutinizing  eyes. 

Well  —  she  laid  her  hand  in  the  night  on  a  letter,  the  letter 


498  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

which  Montebruno  had  written  just  before  he  committed  sui- 
cide. That  was  her  weapon.  And  with  every  day  that  passed 
she  was  gathering  w-ill  to  use  it. 

She  had  only  to  put  it  in  the  post,  with  Sir  Theodore's  name 
and  address  on  the  envelope,  and  Dolores  Cannynge  would  be 
ruined. 

What  would  happen  after  that  she  did  not  know.  And  in 
her  present  mood  she  did  not  care.  She  had  cared,  so  much 
that  she  had  not  yet  sent  the  letter,  the  sending  of  which  might 
give  Dolores  to  Cesare.  But  now  she  was  willing  to  risk  that, 
to  risk  anything,  rather  than  to  go  on  shielding  the  woman  who 
had  wrecked  her  life,  and  who,  she  began  to  believe,  was  playing 
a  long  comedy  to  trick  her. 

Perhaps  it  was  even  Dolores  Cannynge  who  had  made  Cesare 
propose  to  Donna  Ursula  to  cover  her  own  intrigue.  Since  she 
had  heard  of  the  child  Princess  Mancelli  had  passed  out  of 
the  region  in  which  she  had  been  able  to  think  cleverly  and 
reason  calmlj'.  Hidden  in  the  darkness  the  little  dawning  life 
had  already  cast  out  its  influence,  the  tremendous  influence 
which  appertains  only  to  that  in  which  God  has  put  a  part  of 
Himself.  It  had  changed  four  lives.  It  had  given  joy,  still- 
ness, a  fiame,  a  sword. 

When  Princess  Mancelli  had  first  heard  of  the  hopes  in 
the  Cannynge  household  she  had  felt  as  if  a  sword  entered  her 
heart.  In  that  moment  of  keen  and  exquisite  suspicion  she  was 
conscious  that  she  knew  for  the  very  first  time  just  how  much, 
and  how,  she  loved  Cesare.  She  loved  him  mainly  with  the 
flesh,  and  the  flesh  repaid  her  In  its  own  hideous  fashion. 
Never  —  she  felt  it  violently  —  never,  till  now,  in  this  new 
suspicion,  had  she  fully  grasped  the  fact  of  the  whole  meaning 
of  her  lover's  connection  with  Dolores  Cannynge.  Never  till 
now  had  she  known  the  whole  meaning  of  jealousy. 

Let  the  child  be  born  at  the  tim.e  she  had  calculated  and  the 
blow  should  fall.  She  cared  nothing  for  consequences.  All 
that  she  cared  for  w^as  to  strike,  and  to  strike  at  the  moment 
when  the  blow  Vv^ould  prove  deadly. 

Meanwhile  in  Palazzo  Barberini  Dolores  v.-as  preparing  her- 
self for  the  sacred  act  of  woman,  for  the  handing  on  of  the 
torch. 

With  the  sure  instinct  of  her  sex  —  guided  no  doubt  by  the 
inflexible  hand  of  the  great  Mother  —  she  had  found  the  way 
of  release  from  those  mental  tortures  which,  if  endured  by 
her  at  this  period,  must  have  harmed  the  budding  life. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  499 

She  had  given  herself  wholly  to  the  child.  Secretly,  mys- 
teriously, she  had  abandoned  lover,  husband,  even  her  old  self, 
and  had  stolen  away  to  the  child.  With  it  already  she  was 
enclosed  as  in  some  hidden  refuge,  known  only  to  the  child  and 
herself.  The  few  who  saw  her  noticed  the  great  change  in 
her.  And  to  more  than  one  it  now  seemed  like  a  withdrawal. 
Often  now  to  her  husband  she  gave  a  strange  impression  of 
remoteness. 

"  You  must  not  abandon  me  wholly  because  of  our  child," 
he  said  to  her  once,  half  playfully. 

She  was  surprised  by  the  subtlety  of  his  instinct,  which  had 
so  seldom  led  him  aright  in  the  days  that  were  gone.  But  she 
only  said  gravely: 

"  Till  it  is  born  I  must  think  only  of  it,  live  only  for  it." 

"  Yes,  till  it  is  born !  "  he  answered,  with  a  gravity  akin  to 
hers.  "  You  are  right.  We  men  can't  understand  these 
things." 

"  No." 

"I  only  meant — "  he  took  her  hand  —  "don't  go  too  far 
away  from  me." 

"  But  I'm  always  with  you." 

"  You  know  I  mean  in  spirit." 

She  did  not  answer.  He  said  no  more.  And  by  degrees  he 
became  more  accustomed  to  the  change  in  her,  more  reconciled 
to  it.  He  even  at  last  came  almost  to  love  it,  connecting  It 
with  the  mystery  of  motherhood.  And  one  day,  standing  be- 
fore the  picture  attributed  to  Luini,  he  said  to  himself,  as  he 
looked  at  the  pale  Madonna  leaning  over  the  Holy  Child : 

"  All  true  mothers  descend  from  her.     My  Doloretta  too !  " 

And  tears  came  into  his  eyes. 

And  from  that  day  he  never  tried  to  combat  the  gentle  re- 
moteness, the  still  indifference  to  the  life  and  the  people  around 
her,  that  seemed  to  emanate  subtly  from  Dolores,  changing  all 
the  atmosphere  of  his  home.  The  reverence  he  had  felt  when 
he  kissed  her  hair  increased  upon  him.  Day  by  day  he  was  more 
conscious  of  the  sacredness  of  womanhood.  By  his  wife's  ap- 
parent coldness  to  him  he  measured  her  passion  for  the  child. 

"  Let  the  child  have  everything  now,"  he  said  to  himself. 
"  Everything  to  make  it  perfect." 

And  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  feeling  of  Dolores  would 
help  to  form  it,  to  make  its  tiny  limbs  exquisite,  its  little  face 
beautiful,  even  its  nature  tender  and  good. 

Nurse  Jennings,  at  the  urgent  request  of  Dolores,  had  now 


500  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

come  to  live  in  the  palace.  Sir  Theodore  thought  her  an 
excellent  nurse,  and  a  highly  competent  young  woman.  But 
he  did  not  quite  like  her.  He  never  felt  completely  at  his  ease 
u^ith  her,  found  little  to  say  to  her,  and  was  generally  conscious 
of  a  slight  sense  of  relief  when  she  was  out  of  his  sight.  And 
he  came  actually  to  dislike  being  in  a  room  with  both  the  nurse 
and  his  wife.  A  sensation  of  antagonism  then  beset  him,  as 
if  the  two  sexes  were,  and  must  always  be,  inevitably  at  war, 
and  as  if  man  were  the  inferior  fighter.  He  hid  this  feeling 
carefully,  and  was  always  specially  polite  to  the  nurse.  But 
he  looked  forward  eagerly  to  the  time  when  she  would  be  no 
more  with  them. 

She  seemed  sometimes  to  stand  between  him  and  his  wife, 
to  emphasize  the  latter's  withdrawal  from  him,  to  will  that 
he  should  remain  in  an  unpleasant,  almost  an  unnatural  soli- 
tude. 

"Only  a  few  weeks  now!"  he  said  to  himself  one  evening. 

But  he  was  beginning  to  be  haunted  by  anxiety.  For  two 
or  three  days  he  had  seen  very  little  of  his  wife.  She  had 
passed  much  time  in  her  bedroom.  Nurse  Jennings  had  advised 
him  to  leave  her  alone  as  much  as  possible,  to  let  her  have  per- 
fect quiet. 

"But  what  is  the  matter?"  he  asked,  on  this  evening. 
"  Surely  —  Is  she  suffering?  " 

"  Everything  Is  quite  normal.  Sir  Theodore,"  the  nurse  re- 
plied, coldly  he  thought,  and  looking  at  him  with  her  steady 
eyes.     "  There  is  no  need  for  any  special  anxiety." 

But  Sir  Theodore  was  not  satisfied. 

"  We  ought  not  to  have  remained  in  Rome,"  he  said.  "  This 
languid  air  must  be  exhausting  her,  doing  her  harm.  I  always 
wanted  to  take  her  away." 

"  Yes,  Sir  Theodore.  But  she  took  It  Into  her  head  that  it 
must  be  here.     It  was  best  to  humor  her." 

"  But  think  of  the  heat  of  July !  Several  weeks  more,  and 
already " 

The  nurse  said  nothing,  and  made  a  slight  movement  as  if 
to  step  back  Into  Dolores'  bedroom.  But  Sir  Theodore  stopped 
her. 

"  Wait  a  moment,  nurse!  " 

He  went  on,  whispering: 

"  It  Isn't  too   late  I  " 

"What  for.  Sir  Theodore?" 

"  To  get  her  away." 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  501 

**  She  must  remain  here,"  the  nurse  replied,  with  a  decision 
that  sounded  stern. 

"  But  why  ?     I  don't  mean  far." 

*'  Quite  impossible." 

"  But  to  Frascati,  or  Anzio!  At  Anzio  she  would  have  splen- 
did sea  air.  I  could  easily  get  a  villa,  and  we  could  go  by 
motor  car  slowl)^     It  is  quite  near." 

"  Lady  Cannynge  must  not  be  moved  till  the  child  is  born." 

Again  the  nurse  turned  away,  and  again  Sir  Theodore 
Stopped  her. 

"  But  —  I  don't  understand " 

The  word  "  premature  "  had  suddenly  come  into  his  mind, 
almost  on  to  his  lips. 

"  Let  me "  he  said,  and  made  a  movement  towards  the 

bedroom. 

"  She's  tired  to-night  and  was  just  dropping  ofE  to  sleep 
when  I  left  her,"  said  the  nurse,  inflexibly. 

He  stopped. 

"  Oh,  then " 

"  There  is  nothing  to  fuss  about  Sir  Theodore.  If  you  will 
only  be  calm,  and  just  wait,  without  worrying  or  disturbing 
Lady  Cannynge,  there  is  no  reason  that  I  can  see  why  all 
should  not  go  quite  as  it  ought." 

After  a  moment  of  silence,  he  said: 

"  Very  well.     I  trust  your  experience." 

"  Thank  you." 

"But  if  — if " 

He  broke  off.  He  had  been  about  to  say,  "  If  you  are  de- 
ceiving me !  " 

But  what  reason  could  the  nurse  have  for  deceiving  him? 
And  to  say  those  words  would  be  to  insult  the  woman  on  whom 
his  wife  relied. 

*'  I  trust  your  experience  and  devotion,"  he  said. 

And  he  turned  and  walked  rapidly  away. 

Nurse  Jennings  went  softly  back  into  the  bedroom. 

As  she  was  shutting  the  door  from  within  there  came  a 
sound  that  was  like  a  gasping  sigh.     It  was  followed  by  a  cry: 

"Nurse!     Oh,  nurse!  nurse!" 

In  the  early  morning  of  the  following  day,  the  twenty-ninth 
of  the  month,  after  eight  hours  of  agony,  Dolores  gave  birth  to 
St  male  child. 


502  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 


CHAPTER  XLII 

For  years  Sir  Theodore  had  longed  to  have  a  child,  and  had 
Imagined  the  first  jo3^s  of  fatherhood,  the  pride,  the  triumph, 
the  tenderness  a  man  must  surely  feel,  who  holds  in  his  arms 
the  result  of  his  love  for  the  woman  he  has  chosen  to  be  the 
companion  of  his  life.  Always  he  had  imagined  joy  in  con- 
nection with  fatherhood.  Never  had  he  gazed  into  shadows,  or 
confronted  a  great  darkness. 

Yet  now  that  he  himself  at  last  attained,  as  he  supposed, 
his  greatest  desire,  he  knew  a  fear  keener  than  any  which  had 
assailed  him  in  the  past,  a  fear  which  overshadowed  his  tri- 
umph, which  opened  an  abyss  at  his  feet  into  which  he  gazed 
with  horror. 

Supposing  the  birth  to  be  premature  his  very  first  anxiety 
had  been  for  the  child.  He  feared  that  the  child  might  not  be 
normal,  healthy,  strong,  perfect.  The  doctor  and  Nurse  Jen- 
nings reassured  him.  And  his  own  eyes  bore  witness  to  the 
truth. 

The  infant  had  no  blemish,  was  indeed  a  perfect  specimen 
of  a  baby,  such  as  might  have  gladdened  the  heart  of  the  most 
exacting  or  doubting  father. 

That  first  fear  banished,  a  greater  fear  came  upon  him. 

It  was  created  by  the  condition  of  Dolores. 

Although  this  was  her  first  child  the  after  pains  were  ter- 
rible, and  lasted  for  nearly  forty-eight  hours. 

During  all  this  time  Sir  Theodore  never  slept  and  seldom 
rested.  Kept  out  of  his  wife's  room,  where  Nurse  Jennings 
was  in  charge,  a  second  nurse  having  been  hastily  sent  for  to 
take  care  of  the  child,  he  paced  the  immense  apartment,  going 
from  chamber  to  chamber,  but  incessantly  returning  to  the 
lobby  where  hung  the  picture  of  the  Madonna  and  Child  close 
to  his  wife's  door.  Posts  came,  but  he  read  no  letters.  They 
lay  heaped  on  the  table  in  his  study.  Cards  v.-ere  left,  but  he 
did  not  even  glance  at  the  names  upon  them.  He  told  the  serv- 
ants almost  fiercely  that  he  would  see  no  one  and  must  be  left 
entirely  alone.  From  time  to  time  he  ate  a  morsel  of  food. 
Often  he  went  to  gaze  at  the  tiny  child  with  its  strange  black 
eyes  that  seemed  looking  inward  at  things  no  one  on  earth  had 
seen.  Then  he  resumed  his  walk  or,  throwing  himself  on  a 
chair  or  sofa,  closed  his  eyes  and  strove  to  be  calm,  to  combat 
his  grov/ing  fear. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  503 

Why  had  he  never  envisaged  this  possibility  of  the  mother 
giving  her  life  for  the  child?  Or  had  he  envisaged  it?  He 
remembered  vv^ell  his  conversation  with  Dolores  when  she  had 
described  her  visit  to  San  Lorenzo.  For  a  moment,  then,  he 
had  been  troubled,  had  thought  of  death  in  connection  with 
birth.  But  he  had  put  the  thought  away  almost  at  once.  And 
even  then  surely  his  mind  had  only  said  to  itself,  "  Such  a  thing 
might  happen  but  not  to  Doloretta,  never  to  Doloretta,  to 
my  wife,  the  woman  whom  I  love  so  much  and  who  has  been 
my  companion  for  so  many  years." 

Now  he  did  face  this  fearful  possibility.  Perpetually  he 
thought  of  that  monument  in  the  Campo  Santo  of  San  Lorenzo, 
of  the  mother  lying  dead,  of  the  tiny  child  pulling  at  her  hand, 
of  the  words,  "  Mamma  dart." 

Driven  by  thought  he  sprang  up,  again  went  from  room  to 
room.  But  his  mind  was  more  feverishly  active  when  he  was 
in  movement.  It  was  as  if  the  black  thoughts  walked  with  him, 
keeping  him  company  with  an  assiduous  eagerness,  passing  with 
him  through  the  high  doorways,  standing  with  him  before  the 
pictures,  listening  with  him  outside  that  room  in  which  v.as  a 
tortured  woman. 

And  when  the  night  fell  the  troop  of  the  thoughts  increased, 
till  he  felt  himself  in  the  midst  of  a  crowd  of  moving  things 
draped  in  black  and  with  terrible  hidden  faces. 

With  a  sort  of  frightful  carefulness,  a  precision  almost  cold 
and  petty,  he  laid  before  him  a  life  Vv^ithout  Dolores.  She 
was  dead.  Her  bedroom  was  empty.  All  the  things  she  had 
been  accustomed  to  use  stood  in  their  places,  gathering  dust. 
Her  gowns  hung  in  the  wardrobes,  growing  old-fashioned.  Her 
hats  lay  in  the  drawers  and  boxes.  And  how  silent  the  room 
was!     In  her  drawing-room  the  piano  was  shut. 

Softly  he  went  into  her  drawing-room,  and  stood  there  look- 
ing at  everything,  and  saying  to  himself,  "  She  is  dead.  And 
how  Is  it  here?  "  Lenbach's  old  man  met  his  eyes,  still  fiercely 
alive  though  Dolores  was  dead.  He  looked  round,  missing 
something.  Then  he  remembered.  The  "  Donna  guardando 
il  mare  "  was  in  his  library  now.  A  conversation  came  back 
to  his  mind  in  connection  with  that  picture.  Dolores  had  asked 
him  to  take  it  out  of  the  room.  She  had  said :  "  You  have  it, 
if  you  like."  He  had  answered,  "What!  Am  I  to  have  all 
the  sad  things?"  But  he  had  taken  the  picture,  and  he  had 
kept  it. 

All  the  sad  things!     If  it  were  true?     If  he  were  fated  to 


504  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

endure  great  sorrows,  perhaps  the  greatest  that  a  man  can  un- 
dergo? But,  here,  once  more  man's  strange  and  unreasoning 
optimism  for  a  moment  returned  to  him,  and  he  said  to  him- 
self, "  No.  Other  men  may  be  destined  to  such  a  fate  but  it 
Is  not  possible  that  I  am."  Nevertheless,  immediately  after- 
wards he  continued  carefully  to  imagine  his  life  in  Rome  as  a 
widower:  the  waking  up  In  the  morning  without  Dolores,  the 
frightful  freedom,  no  one  to  consult  as  to  the  laying  out  of 
the  day;  the  coffee  taken  alone,  the  walk,  the  return  to  lunch 
In  solitude;  the  stretching  afternoon,  tea-time  with  no  Dolores 
sitting  beside  him  to  pour  out  tea,  to  give  him  his  cup ;  the 
closing  In  of  the  evening,  the  lighting  up  of  the  rooms,  the  din- 
ner hour,  the  silence,  the  deadly  silence  of  the  night.  He 
shuddered.  The  cold  precision  became  Impossible  to  him.  Such 
a  life  could  not  be  In  store  for  him. 

Then  he  thought  of  the  child.  Even  If  he  lost  the  mother 
the  child  would  be  left.  No  longer  a  husband  there  would 
remain  to  him  the  life  of  a  father. 

But  now  he,  who  had  so  almost  desperately  desired  a  child, 
recoiled  from  the  thought  of  being  left  alone  with  a  child 
which  had  killed  its  mother.  No  doubt  he  was  affected  by  his 
gnawing  anxiety,  by  his  lack  of  sleep.  The  second  night  of 
Dolores'  agony  had  fallen  around  him.  His  body  was  begin- 
ning to  suffer  severely  under  the  strain  of  the  mind's  painful 
and  almost  sinister  activity.  Perhaps  for  this  reason  he  was 
now  companioned  by  a  morbid  horror,  horror  at  the  Idea  of 
being  the  father  of  a  child  which  had  caused  Dolores  such  tor- 
ment, a  torment  which  still  continued,  and  which  might  end 
In  her  death.  In  vain  he  said  to  himself  that  all  this  was  or- 
dained, was  the  mysterious  work  of  Nature,  was  necessary  — 
why,  no  man  knew  or  would  ever  know  on  this  side  of  the  veil 
—  served  some  hidden  purpose.  In  vain  he  dwelt  upon  the 
absolute  Innocence  of  the  little  child,  now  sleeping  calmly  while 
he  could  not  sleep.  The  horror  remained  with  him  and  became 
more  threatening,  till  at  last  came  the  thought,  "  If  Doloretta 
dies  I  shall  hate  the  child,  my  child!  " 

In  that  moment  he  knew  how  deep  his  love  for  his  wife 
must  be.  Or  was  It  really  his  love  for  the  mother  of  the  child? 
Certain  It  was  that  the  Dolores  In  agony  meant  more  to 
him  than  the  sleeping  child,  far  more.  He  felt  that  he  would 
allow  the  child  to  die  If  Its  death  could  save  the  mother.  He 
no  longer  recognized  himself.  This  man,  wakeful  In  the  dead 
hours,  was  like  a  stranger,  with  feelings  he  —  Theodore  Can- 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  505' 

nynge  —  was  aware  of  with  amazement,  with  desires  he  surely 
could  not  share.  Yet  he  was,  somehow,  identified  with  these 
feelings,  these  desires.     They  were  not  his  —  and  his. 

He  strove  to  detach  his  surely  murderous  thought  from  the 
child,  fearing  himself  almost  as  a  potential  assassin.  What  is 
man  that  he  can  live  till  middle  age  and  never  know  himself? 

This  stranger  was  frightful  to  Theodore  Cannynge. 

He  went  very  softly  to  the  lobby  outside  the  room  of  Do- 
lores. It  was  two  o'clock  in  the  morning.  He  turned  on  a 
light  which  shone  just  above  the  picture  he  thought  a  Luini. 
He  gazed  at  the  Mother  and  Child. 

"  She  suffered !  "  he  thought,  as  his  eyes  dwelt  on  the  Virgin. 
How  calm  she  looked !  He  felt  comforted  in  that  moment. 
Surely  Dolores  would  emerge  from  the  darkness  and  the  pain 
as  millions  of  mothers  had  emerged.  We  wrestle  with  Death 
and  how  often  we  overcome  him.  There  is  a  destined  hour. 
Till  that  hour  strikes  Death  may  want  us  but  he  cannot  have  us. 

And  if  the  mother  lived  how  he  would  love  the  child! 

As  he  was  about  to  extinguish  the  light  the  door  of  Do- 
lores' room  opened,  and  Nurse  Jennings  came  quickly  out. 
iWhen  she  saw  Sir  Theodore  she  shut  the  door  behind  her 
swiftly,  but  gentlj% 

"  Oh,  Sir  Theodore!  "  she  said,  with  reproach,  but  with  pity 
too.     "Why  don't  vou  go  to  bed?" 

"I  can't!''' 

"  But  this  is  the  second  night  vou " 

"I  can't!" 

She  shook  her  head. 

"How  —  how — ?"   he  whispered. 

The  nurse  sighed. 

"  The  pains  are  beginning  to  go  off  a  little." 

*'  Well  then  —  then  that's  good  —  hopeful !  " 

"  Yes,  of  course." 

"Why  do  you  look  like  that?"  he  whispered  sharply. 

"  She's  so  weak !  "  the  nurse  said. 

They  looked  at  each  other  for  a  moment  in  silence.  Then 
Sir  Theodore  turned  away.  He  went  back  to  the  suite  of  sit- 
ting-rooms and  resumed  his  unquiet  walk. 

A  little  before  five  o'clock  in  the  morning  he  heard  a  faint 
rustling  and  a  step  somewhere  in  the  distance.  In  a  moment 
he  saw  Nurse  Jennings  coming  towards  him. 

"What  is  it?"  he  exclaimed.     "She  isn't ?" 

He  dared  not  finish  the  sentence.     He  stood  still,  staring. 


506  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  You  might  come  and  see  her,"  the  nurse  said. 

He  caught  her  arm. 

"  Then  she's  better!  " 

"  The  pains  are  over." 

"And  she  asked ?" 

"  No.     She  hasn't  said  anything." 

Cold  seized  him. 

"Not  said !" 

*'  She's  very  much  exhausted,  terribly  exhausted.  The  doc- 
tor will  be  back  almost  directly.  I'm  expecting  him  every 
minute." 

Sir  Theodore's  hand  closed  on  her  arm. 

"Why  have  you  come  for  me?" 

"  Because  I  thought  you'd  like  to  see  her  for  a  moment. 
.Wouldn't  you?" 

His  hand  dropped. 

"  Yes  —  of  course." 

He  looked  on  the  ground.  He  was  trying  to  combat  the 
cold. 

"  Go  in  to  her!  "  Nurse  Jennings  said  in  a  very  low  voice. 

Again  Sir  Theodore  stared  at  this  woman.  At  this  moment 
it  seemed  to  him  as  if  she  held  in  her  hands  the  keys  of  life 
and  of  death.  Then  he  went  into  the  bedroom.  He  did  not 
notice  whether  the  nurse  followed  him,  whether  the  door  was 
shut  behind  him  or  not.  As  he  came  into  the  room  there  flashed 
into  his  mind  a  scene  of  the  past:  Dolores  trying  on  hats  when 
he  sought  her  to  tell  her  about  the  illness  of  Francis  Denzii. 
He  remembered  the  ugly  impression  that  scene  had  made  upon 
him.  Then  he  had  been  thinking  of  death,  dreading  death. 
And  a  trivial  incident  connected  with  the  lighter  side  of  life 
had  almost  shocked  him.  Dolores  and  the  room  looked  differ- 
ent novv-.  If  only  he  could  see  her  in  activity  I  If  only  he 
could  hear  her  voice  now  asking: 

"  Do  you  think  yellow  becoming?  " 

The  big  room  was  dimly  lit  by  a  lamp  burning  near  the  bed. 
He  approached  slowly.  There  was  no  sound  to  welcome  him. 
He  saw  Dolores.  She  was  lying  on  her  back.  Her  tall  figure 
was  stretched  straight  out  on  the  bed.  Her  hands  and  arms 
were  hidden  under  the  coverlet.  Her  dark  hair  lay  in  heavy 
bunches  on  the  low  pillow.     Her  white  face  looked  very  small. 

"  Doloretta!  "  he  said  softly. 

Her  eyes  were  open  and  gazed  at  him.  She  did  not  say 
anything.     Without   bending   over   her,   kissing  her,   touching 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  507 

her,  he  sat  down  near  the  bed.  Then  he  made  a  movement. 
His  instinct  was  to  take  her  hand.  But  her  hands  were  still 
hidden. 

She  looked  tired,  terriblj'  tired.  But  it  was  not  that  fact 
which  held  him  still  in  a  coldness  of  fear.  The  expression  in 
her  eyes,  and,  so  it  seemed  to  him,  in  her  whole  face,  over- 
whelmed him.  There  was  intelligence  in  it,  not  keen,  but 
profound,  brooding,  heavj^  And  this  intelligence  was  remote 
and  stern.  She  gazed  at  him,  and  she  gazed  as  if  she  certainly 
saw  him.  He  felt  quite  sure  she  had  watched  his  approach, 
had  noted  his  actions,  knew  who  he  was  and  Vvhy  he  was  there. 
He  even  felt  sure  that  she  knew  what  he  was  feeling  in  that 
moment. 

But  he,  and  what  he  did,  what  he  felt,  where  he  was,  no 
longer  affected  her,  no  longer  mattered  to  her  at  all.  To  her 
he  perhaps  appeared  like  a  dot  in  the  foreground  of  some  im- 
mense scene,  which  stretched  away  into  a  distance  so  vast  that 
he,  and  such  as  he  could  not  even  conceive  of  it. 

He  sat  quite  still  for  some  time,  he  did  not  know  how  long, 
without  taking  his  eyes  from  his  wife's  face.  He  did  not  dare 
to  move,  or  to  speak  again.  He  feared  to  disturb  this  tremen- 
dous contemplation.  As  he  watched  he  noticed  that  the  eyelids 
of  Dolores  frequently  closed  and  opened  again,  as  the  eyelids  of 
human  beings  ordinarily  do.  And  he  found  that  this  fact  pres- 
ently gave  him  a  very  faint  feeling  of  relief.  Once,  for  an 
Instant,  the  eyelids  remained  closed,  and  he  saw  the  long  curl- 
ing lashes  against  the  Vv'hite  cheeks,  and  remembered  his  first 
moment  of  love  for  Dolores.  Then  the  eyes  opened,  he 
thought  more  widely.  The  expression  in  them  seemed  to  him 
to  change,  to  become  less  brooding,  and  more  imperative. 

"  She  wants  the  child !  "  he  said  to  himself. 

He  turned  round.  The  bedroom  door  was  a  little  way  open. 
He  got  up,  went  to  it  and  looked  out  into  the  Iobb3\ 

Nurse  Jennings  was  there.     He  joined  her. 

"  Fetch  the  child !  "  he  whispered.     "  She  wants  the  child." 

Without  a  word  Nurse  Jennings  went  awaj^  Sir  Theodore 
remained  in  the  lobby,  waiting  for  the  child  to  be  brought. 
When  Nurse  Jennings  returned,  carrjn'ng  against  her  breast  a 
white  bundle,  in  the  midst  of  which  a  tiny,  dark  face  could 
be  discerned,  he  preceded  her  into  the  room,  and  went  up  to 
the  bed.     This  time  he  dared  to  bend  down  over  his  wife. 

"  You  wanted  the  child,"  he  said.     "  We  have  brought  him." 

Dolores  turned  her  eyes  towards  the  white  bundle.     Nurse 


5o8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Jennings  was  about  to  sit  down  by  the  bed  when  Sir  Theodore 
said: 

"  Give  me  the  child." 

She  made  a  slight  movement,  as  if  of  protest.  But  he  took 
the  baby  from  her,  with  delicate  care.  He  felt  that  only  he 
knew  what  Dolores  wanted,  that  only  he  could  gratify  her  tre- 
mendous desire. 

As  he  took  the  baby  the  sleeping  eyes  opened  and  stared 
at  him  gravely. 

He  kneeled  down  by  the  side  of  the  bed.  With  a  slow  ef- 
fort Dolores  raised  herself.  She  moved  her  arms,  drawing  them 
up,  and  lifting  herself  on  her  elbows.  Her  white  hands 
emerged  from  beneath  the  coverlet.  Sir  Theodore  held  the 
baby  in  front  of  her,  so  that  she  could  look  down  on  him.  For 
a  moment  she  gazed  into  his  large  black  eyes,  and  he  gazed  up 
at  her.  Then  her  expression  slightly  changed,  softened  a  very 
little,  became  a  little  less  remote.  Her  lips  moved.  Sir  Theo- 
dore leaned  nearer  to  her,  and  heard  her  say,  under  her  breath, 
"  Not  for  me." 

"  Doloretta  —  what?"  he  whispered.  "But  look!  It  is 
our  child!  " 

He  paused,  scrutinizing  her. 

*'  It  is  your  child,"  he  almost  faltered. 

She  turned  her  eyes  slowly  from  the  baby,  and  looked  at 
her  husband. 

"  Not  for  me !  "  she  repeated,  with  a  deep  sigh. 

The  stern  expression  returned  to  her  face.  She  sighed 
again  faintly.  Her  elbows  slipped.  Her  hands  disappeared 
beneath  the  coverlet.  Her  head  dropped  sideways  upon  the 
pillow. 

The  baby  closed  his  eyes  and  slept  once  more. 

But  Sir  Theodore  did  not  notice  It.  He  was  gazing  at  two 
tears,  which  had  welled  up  In  those  stern  eyes  of  the  woman 
he  loved  and  hung  for  an  Instant  on  her  long  eyelashes. 

"  Doloretta!  "  he  whispered.     "  Doloretta!  " 

Nurse  Jennings  took  the  baby  from  his  arms  with  a  trem- 
bling swiftness. 

"  Oh,  Sir  Theodore!  "  he  heard  her  say  behind  him.  "  She's 
gone!  " 

He  turned  his  head  towards  her. 

"Gone?"  he  said. 

The  nurse  began  to  sob,  bending  down  over  the  baby. 

Then  he  understood.     He  turned.     He  leaned  over  the  long 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  509 

figure  on  the  bed,  kissed  the  wet  eyelids  and  closed  the  eyes  of 
Dolores. 


It  was  the  day  after  the  funeral  of  Dolores.  She  had  been 
buried  near  Francis  Denzil  in  the  English  burial  ground  out- 
side the  walls  of  Rome.  Now  the  sun  shone  to  greet  the  man 
who  must  rise  and  face  his  new  life. 

Sir  Theodore  made  his  toilet  and  dressed  mechanically. 
Nurse  Jennings  was  still  in  the  house,  but  intended  to  leave 
that  day.  Since  the  death  of  Dolores  her  manner  had  changed 
towards  Sir  Theodore.  She  had  seen  his  grief.  She  could  not 
feel  towards  him  quite  as  she  had  formerly  felt.  Nevertheless 
she  was  anxious  to  be  away.  A  singularly  frank,  and  almost 
bluntly  truthful  \voman,  now  that  Dolores,  whom  she  had  really 
loved,  was  gone  she  wished  to  get  out  of  the  insincere  atmos- 
phere which,  it  seemed  to  her,  must  forever  brood  about  the 
child  that  remained  with  Sir  Theodore.  And  she  had  insisted 
on  resigning  the  charge  of  the  child  to  the  second  nurse  who 
had  been  engaged.  In  bed,  after  the  funeral,  she  had  "  cried 
herself  nearly  sick,"  Now  she,  too,  got  up  and  began  to  make 
her  last  preparations. 

After  his  pretense  of  breakfast  Sir  Theodore  wandered 
through  the  rooms.  His  shoulders  were  a  little  bowed.  His 
head  drooped.  His  face  was  lined  and  haggard.  To-day  he 
did  not  feel  exactly  sad.  He  felt  strange,  dull,  vague  and 
hopeless,  but  scarcely  sad. 

The  rooms  seemed  immense  as  he  went  through  them,  hor- 
ribly immense.  He  made  up  his  mind  to  give  them  up  as  soon 
as  possible.  He  would  go  away.  He  would  take  the  child  to 
England. 

At  the  funeral  there  had  been  very  few  people  besides  him- 
self and  Nurse  Jennings,  Edna  Denzil  had  come  and  little 
Theo.  Lady  Sarah  had  been  there.  As  Sir  Theodore  WRS 
leaving  the  burial  ground  he  had  seen  Cesare  Carelli  getting 
quickly  into  a  motor  car,  and  had  faintly  wondered  what  the 
young  man  was  doing  in  that  neighborhood.  It  had  never 
occurred  to  him  that  Carelli  might  be  there  in  connection  with 
the  burial  of  his  wife. 

Lady  Sarah,  too,  had  seen  Cesare,  and  her  face  had  quiv- 
ered under  her  veil. 

Just  before  Sir  Theodore  drove  away  she  had  taken  his  hand, 
and  had  said  in  a  low  voice : 


510  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

"  Could  I  be  of  any  use?     I  loved  her." 

"  Thank  you,"  he  had  replied. 

She  held  his  hand. 

"  Would  you  like  me  to  come  to-morrow?  Can  I  help  at  all 
with  the  child.  I  have  had  children  of  my  own  though  I  have 
none  now.     And  I  —  I  care  very  much  for  little  children." 

"  Yes,  thank  you.     Do  come,"  he  had  answered. 

He  had  hardly  known  what  he  was  saying,  but  he  had  been 
conscious  of  a  slight  sensation  of  comfort  and  support  at  the 
moment. 

To-day,  however,  he  had  forgotten  all  about  the  matter. 

Presently,  after  gazing  at  many  things  which  had  belonged  to 
his  wife,  after  opening  her  piano,  handling  her  music,  stand- 
ing for  a  long  while  before  her  writing-table  on  which  lay 
several  unopened  letters  addressed  to  her,  he  v/ent  to  his  library. 
The  table  there  was  heaped  with  letters.  He  had  not  looked 
at  one  since  the  birth  of  the  child. 

Mechanically  he  sat  down  at  the  table.  All  these  letters  to 
read  and  to  answer!  And  what  was  the  good  of  it  all?  He 
rested  his  head  on  his  hand,  leaning  his  elbow  on  the  blotting 
pad.  He  felt  fearfully  tired,  in  the  body  and  in  the  soul,  as 
if  all  his  forces  were  burnt  out,  as  if  only  gray  ashes  were  left. 
Even  the  child  meant  nothing  to  him  at  this  moment.  It  had 
killed  the  mother.  He  had  imagined  that  deed,  and  himself 
left  alone  with  the  child.  He  had  imagined  that  he  might  hate 
the  child.  To-day  he  was  incapable,  as  he  supposed,  of  hatred 
or  love.  Indeed  it  seemed  to  him  quite  impossible  that  any- 
body ever  could  possess  enough  energy  for  either  the  one  or 
the  other. 

As  he  rested  his  head  on  his  hand  he  looked  down  at  the 
pile  of  unopened  letters.  He  saw  Edna  Denzil's  handwriting 
on  an  envelope  which  had  arrived  that  morning,  and  at  last, 
with  a  sigh,  he  lifted  his  head,  and  laid  his  hand  on  it.  He 
opened  it,  and  read  a  very  tender  message  of  loving  friendship 
and  intensely  sincere  sorrow.     The  last  words  were: 

"  You  have  been  like  a  father  to  my  fatherless  little  ones. 
Can  I  not  help  you  by  showing  my  love  for  your  motherless 
child?  Tell  me  presently  what  I  may  do.  Your  friend, 
Edna  Denzil." 

This  letter,  though  it  did  not  stir  in  him  any  deep  emotion, 
gave   a   certain   impetus   to   his  hitherto  stagnant   mind.     He 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  511 

began  to  think  and  to  remember,  to  realize  more  strongly  life 
and  himself  in  life.  But  this  increasing  power  of  thought 
alarmed  him.  He  feared  the  bourne  whither  it  might  be  tend- 
ing. And,  determined  to  distract  himself,  he  hastily,  at  hap- 
hazard, stretched  out  his  hand  and  took  up  another  letter.  It 
was  written  in  Italian,  and  enclosed  within  it  was  a  note,  which 
dropped  down  from  his  uncertain,  almost  nerveless  fingers,  as 
he  extracted  it  from  the  envelope.  He  let  the  note  lie,  and 
began  to  read  the  letter. 

Hotel   Dell'Axien-e. 
SuBiACO,  September  22,  19 — . 
My  dearest  Lisetta: 

I  shall  not  see  3^ou  again.  You  are  the  last  person  I  shall 
ever  write  to.  I  came  to  Rome  last  night  from  Nice. 
I  am  ruined.  You  will  think  that  is  nothing  new.  This 
time,  however,  the  ruin  is  final.  I  have  no  further  re- 
sources. There  is  no  way  in  which  I  can  obtain  the  com- 
mand of  any  money,  though,  if  I  could,  I  still  believe  the 
luck  would  turn,  and  I  might  win  back  all  my  losses  and 
more.  I  am  tired  of  it  all,  and  have  resolved  to  end  it. 
And  I  should  have  ended  it  in  Rome  but  for  something 
that  occurred  to-day.  As  you  know  I  am  not  a  senti- 
mentalist but  rather  a  materialist.  Nevertheless  we  are 
not  always  our  own  masters.  Nor  can  we  feel  and  act 
always  according  to  the  dictates  of  the  brain,  I  love  you, 
and  have  found  mj^self  quite  unable  to  root  out  this  love. 
And  this  love  leads  me  to  hate  your  enemies.  The  great- 
est of  these  is  Cesare  Carelli " 

At  this  point  Sir  Theodore,  yielding  to  an  ungovernable  im- 
pulse, picked  up  the  note  he  had  dropped  on  the  table,  and  read : 

"Dear  Sir  Theodore  Cannynge : 

I  enclose  a  letter  which  I  think  must  interest  you.     It 
explains  itself  and  needs  no  comment  from  me.     But   I 
will  ask  you  specially  to  mark  its  date. 
Yrs.  sincerely 

Lisetta  Mancelli." 

The  date  at  the  top  of  this  note  showed  that  it  had  been  writ- 
ten on  the  day  of  the  child's  birth,  the  child  having  been  born 
in  the  early  morning. 

Sir  Theodore  laid  it  down  and  went  on  reading  the  letter. 
"  The  greatest  of  these  is  Cesare  Carelli.     When  he  be- 


512  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

came  your  lover  I  hated  him.  But  since  he  abandoned 
you  for  Lady  Cannynge  I  have  loathed  him." 

A  torrent  of  red  rushed  over  Sir  Theodore's  face.  The  letter 
shook  in  his  hand.  He  made  a  movement  as  if  to  throw  it 
away,  checked  himself,  laid  it  down,  bent  over  the  table  with 
both  hands  on  it,  and  read  on  to  the  end. 

"  To-day  I  happened  to  be  near  the  Porta  San  Sebastiano 
when  I  saw  Carelli  go  by  in  a  motor  towards  the  open 
country.  He  was  driving  himself  at  a  tremendous  rate. 
But  I  saw  his  face  quite  clearly.  As  you  know  I  have  not 
lived  in  the  rooms  at  Monte  Carlo  for  years  without 
learning  to  judge  minds  accurately  enough  from  the  faces 
which  often  try  to  conceal  them.  The  face  of  Carelli  put 
me  on  the  track  of  something.  I  knew  Lady  Cannynge 
was  in  Rome,  and  that  her  husband  was  in  England.  I 
connected  the  excitement  and  hurry  of  Carelli,  his  rapid  de- 
parture from  Rome,  with  her.  Why?  My  instinct  was 
at  work.  And  my  instinct  was  right.  Almost  directly 
after  Carelli  had  disappeared  I  met  a  taxi-cab,  on  which 
was  some  luggage,  going  in  the  same  direction  as  Carelli's 
motor.  Inside  was  a  tall  woman.  She  was  wrapped  in  a 
veil.  But  I  thought,  indeed  I  felt  almost  sure,  that  I 
detected  Lady  Cannynge.  Then,  Lisetta,  it  occurred  to 
me  that  possibly  I  might  do  you  a  last  service,  before  get- 
ting out  of  this  world,  which  refuses  to  offer  me  anything 
more  worth  the  taking.  I  went  into  Rome,  engaged  a  taxi- 
cab,  and  told  the  chauffeur  to  drive  me  out  of  the  city  by 
the  Porta  San  Sebastiano,  and  to  go  on  till  I  gave  him  fur- 
ther directions.  When  we  were  opposite  to  the  flying 
ground  at  Centocelle  I  stopped  him,  and  inquired  of  a  man 
with  a  wine  cart,  who  was  coming  in  from  the  direction  of 
Colonna,  whether  he  had  met  a  gray  torpedo-shaped  motor 
car  on  the  road.  He  told  me  he  had,  and  that  it  was  going 
much  too  fast  and  had  smothered  him  with  dust.  I  gave 
the  fellow  some  money  and  got  out  of  him  another  piece  of 
Information.  He  had  also  met  a  taxi-cab  with  a  tall  lady 
in  it,  and  luggage  outside,  and  had  been  asked  by  the  driver, 
and  the  lady,  if  they  were  going  right  for  Olevano  Romano. 
The  lady,  he  said,  spoke  well  but  he  was  sure  she  was  one 
of  the  English.  Having  ascertained  what  I  wanted  I  told 
my  driver  to  take  me  to  Olevano  Romano.     Not  far  from 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  513 

there  I  met  a  returning  taxi-cab,  stopped  it,  and  —  by 
the  usual  means  —  learnt  from  the  driver  enough  to  be 
quite  sure  that  Carelli  and  Lady  Cannynge  are  at  this  mo- 
ment at  Casa  Truschi,  the  inn  above  Olevano  on  the  hill, 
and  that  they  have  gone  there  to  stay  the  night.  In  order 
that  I  may  not  meet  them  by  chance,  or  be  known  by 
them  to  be  in  the  neighborhood,  I  have  come  on  here.  But 
when  night  falls  I  shall  return.  What  am  I  going  to  do  ? 
Something  for  you,  Lisetta,  and  something  also  for  myself. 
For  even  now  I  think  of  myself.  I  know  Casa  Truschi 
and  the  land  about  it.  As  a  boy  I  was  often  there.  I 
meant  to  make  an  end  of  things  in  Rome,  I  have  changed 
my  mind.  When  the  night  comes  I  shall  go  up  the  hill 
and  I  shall  die  where  these  two  must  know  of  my  death, 
where  they  shall  be  the  first  to  find  me,  where  they  shall  be 
involved  in  the  publicity  that  will  follow  my  end.  There 
is  a  pergola  just  below  the  balcony  of  the  room  which  they 
must  occupy.  That  is  the  place  I  have  chosen.  A  pistol 
shot,  and  their  secrecy  is  blown  to  the  winds.  So,  you 
will  see,  at  the  very  end  I  shall  serve  you  and  strike  those 
who  have  made  you  suffer,  who  have  treated  you,  Lisetta 
Mancelli,  with  cruelty,  indignity,  treachery. 

Addio.  I  make  no  last  protestations.  You  have  helped 
me.  You  have  paid  debts  for  me;  I  shall  pay  something 
into  your  account  to-night,  and  something  into  my  own, 

MONTEBRUNO. 

'Having  finished  the  letter  Sir  Theodore  got  up  from  the 
writing-table.  But  he  did  not  leave  it.  For  several  minutes 
he  stood  beside  it  with  his  hands  upon  the  letter. 

The  date  —  the  date!  He  was  trying  to  make  a  calculation, 
but  he  was  unable  to  make  it.  His  brain  was  clouded,  and  there 
was  a  buzzing  in  his  ears.  Nevertheless  he  felt  almost  furiously 
obstinate.  He  w^ould  stand  there  till  he  was  able  to  make  that 
calculation.  The  blood  had  now  retreated  from  his  face,  leav- 
ing a  strange  and  hideous  pallor  which  showed  underneath  the 
brown  tint  of  the  skin.  But  the  exhausted  feeling  had  left  him. 
Although  his  brain  for  the  moment  was  clouded  his  body  felt 
strongly  alive. 

A  very  faint  and  distant  cry  disturbed  the  silence  of  the 
library.  And  immediately  his  mind  was  clear.  He  listened. 
The  soiind  was  not  repeated.  But  he  had  known  it  for  the  cry 
of  his  child. 


514  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

His  child?  He  moved  quickly  away  from  the  writing-table 
with  the  intention  of  going  into  the  room  which  had  been 
turned  into  a  nursery.  But  when  he  reached  the  door,  and  had 
opened  it,  he  stopped.  He  felt  that  he  dared  not  go  to  the  child 
just  then,  till  he  had  thought,  considered,  till  he  had  recovered 
complete  possession  of  himself,  till  he  had  arrived,  perhaps, 
at  some  conclusion.  And  he  left  the  door  open  and  went  back 
to  the  library.  ' 

Now  he  was  able  to  make  that  calculation  which,  just  be- 
fore, had  been  impossible  to  him.  And  his  face  showed  a 
greater  pallor. 

Yet  he  did  not  believe  a  word  of  all  this.  With  contempt 
he  told  himself  so.     He  repeated  it  to  himself  again  and  again. 

His  wife  and  Cesare  Carelli !  Why,  they  had  scarcely  known 
each  other.  They  had  been  the  merest  acquaintances.  And, 
apart  from  that,  who  that  had  ever  really  known  Doloretta 
could  for  a  moment  suspect  her  of  such  an  action.  She  rose 
up  before  his  memory.  It  was  as  if  he  saw  her  standing  in 
the  room,  with  her  large  and  wistful  eyes,  her  almost  sad  lips, 
and  slightly  down-drawn  brows.  He  thought  of  the  nick- 
name some  had  given  her.  Gazelle.  He  heard  again  the  sound 
of  her  voice.  How  could  such  a  woman  commit  such  an  action 
as  this  letter  attributed  to  her?  Why  her  whole  being  would 
shrink  from  the  mere  thought  of  it.  Body  and  soul  she  would 
abhor  it.  And,  besides,  she  had  loved  him.  She  had  certainly 
loved  him  deeply,  always. 

Had  not  she? 

Suddenly  he  rememoered  how  often,  before  his  going  to 
Sicily,  he  and  Dolores  had  been  separated.  He  remembered 
the  life  at  Frascati,  his  wife's  departure  to  Como,  her  long  stay 
in  Rome  alone  later  on  in  the  almost  deserted  palace.  He 
remembered  his  visits  to  England,  his  pre-occupation  with  the 
aifairs  of  Edna  Denzil,  and  with  the  children.  Not  for  a 
moment,  even  now,  did  he  blame  himself.  But  he  remembered 
that  Dolores  had  declined  to  go  on  living  at  Frascati,  and  he  re- 
membered that  she  had  been  very  often  alone. 

Had  she  been  alone  all  that  time? 

He  snatched  at  the  letter  again.  He  re-read  It,  forming 
every  word  with  his  lips.  Montebruno  had  killed  himself  in 
that  pergola  at  Casa  Truschi.  The  whole  Roman  world  had 
wondered  why.  But  no  names  had  been  mentioned  in  connec- 
tion with  his  death.  There  had  been  no  scandal.  Nothing  had 
ever  been  hinted  of  a  woman  at  the  inn  that  night.     Why, 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  515 

after  all,  what  did  this  letter  show?  Merely  that  Montebruno 
had  thought  that  the  woman  who  drove  in  a  taxi-cab  to  the  inn 
was  Dolores.  He  had  only  seen  her  veiled.  His  assertion  that, 
after  speaking  with  the  returning  chauffeur,  he  was  quite  sure  of 
the  Identity  of  this  woman,  carried  no  conviction.  How  should 
a  taxi-cab  driver  know?  And,  anyhow,  those  fellows  will  say 
anything  for  money.     And  Montebruno  had  given  him  money. 

How  dark  the  child's  eyes  were  —  black  eyes! 

It  would  be  very  easy  to  order  a  motor  now,  to  go  to  Olevano 
Romano,  to  make  inquiries.  But  what  was  the  good,  when 
he  was  sure,  absolutely  sure,  that  his  dead  wife  was  incapable 
of  such  an  action?  She  hardly  knew  Carelli.  She  hardly 
knew  him. 

Sir  Theodore  repeated  this  to  himself  again  and  again,  with 
a  sort  of  desperate  anger,  which  he  believed  was  directed  against 
a  dead  slanderer,  Montebruno. 

That  Princess  Mancelli  should  send  such  a  letter  to  one  who 
was  almost  a  stranger!  He  looked  again  at  the  date  of  her 
note.  She  had  sent  it  when  Dolores  was  alive,  when  there  was 
no  reason  to  suppose  Dolores  was  in  any  danger  of  death. 

Then  Princess  Mancelli  absolutely  believed  that  Dolores  had 
betrayed  him.  She  had  proved  it  by  being  content  that  he 
should  confront  his  wife  with  the  letter  of  Montebruno.  She 
had  proved  It  by  allowing  him  to  know  of  her  own  shame. 

He  began  to  pace  his  room. 

If  he  had  opened  that  letter  when  first  it  reached  the  palace ! 
He  could  have  taken  it  to  his  wife's  room,  he  could  have  said 
to  her,  "  Here  Is  a  slander.  Deny  It,  only  deny  It,  and  I  will 
never  think  of  It  again.  The  letter  shall  be  burnt  and  forgot- 
ten." 

Ill  as  she  was  she  would  have  denied  It.  Even  when  she  was 
at  the  point  of  death,  when  she  had  looked  at  him  with  those 
strangely  stern  eyes,  when  she  had  had  no  words  for  him,  if 
he  had  told  her  of  that  slander  she  must  have  understood. 
Such  an  accusation  would  have  recalled  her  spirit  from  the  re- 
mote region  It  had  gained.  She  would  have  understood,  have 
returned,  have  denied. 

He  remembered  his  arrival  In  Sicily. 

How  different  Dolores  had  seemed  to  him  In  Sicily!  While 
he  had  been  away  In  England  she  had  subtly  changed.  He  had 
noticed  It  directly.  And,  that  night  in  Sicily,  when  he  took 
her  In  his  arms,  how  she  had  cried  1 

Why  had  she  cried  like  that? 


5i6  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

Again  the  blood  rushed  to  his  face.  If  it  were  true!  If 
his  dead  wife  had  really  taken  a  lover!  If  —  the  terrible  date 
flamed,  as  if  written  in  fire,  before  his  mind. 

Nurse  Jennings! 

He  stood  still.  A  memory  had  arrested  his  activity,  the 
memory  of  his  conversation  with  the  nurse  when  he  wished  to 
take  his  wife  out  of  Rome,  believing  that  a  month  must  elapse 
before  the  birth  of  the  child.  She  had  said  the  journey  was  im- 
possible, and  she  had  said,  "  Everything  is  quite  normal."  If 
the  child  that  was  then  about  to  be  born  had  been  his,  and  if 
everything  had  been  quite  normal,  then  such  a  journey  as  he  had 
proposed  would  not  have  been  impossible.  He  had  felt  as  if 
the  nurse  were  trying  to  deceive  him.  He  had  even  almost  said 
so.  His  instinct  had  led  him  right.  He  was  sure  of  it  now, 
suddenly  sure  of  it.  Nurse  Jennings  had  known  before,  long 
before,  when  the  child  must  be  born,  and  she  had  kept  him  in 
ignorance.     She  had  not  dared  to  tell  him. 

He  turned  sharply,  went  out  of  the  library,  traversed  the 
green  and  red  drawing-room  and  the  adjoining  chamber,  and 
came  into  the  hall.  As  he  was  about  to  go  down  the  passage 
to  the  right,  in  search  of  Nurse  Jennings,  whose  bedroom  was 
there,  he  heard  a  slight  noise,  and  stopped.  Some  one  was  in- 
serting the  latchkey  into  his  front  door.  He  stood  facing  the 
door.  The  key  turned,  the  door  opened  inwards,  and  Cesare 
Carelli  stood  before  him,  pale,  hard,  resolute,  with  unflinching 
eyes,  the  eyes  of  a  man  devoured  by  purpose,  by  the' desperate 
will  to  act. 

When  he  saw  Sir  Theodore  he  showed  no  surprise.  He  drew 
the  key  out  of  the  keyhole  and  shut  the  door  behind  him. 

The  two  men  stood  for  a  moment  face  to  face  in  silence. 

"How  did  you  get  possession  of  the  key  of  my  door?" 
at  last  said  Sir  Theodore. 

"  Your  wife  gave  it  to  me." 

"When?" 

"  On  the  night  before  you  started  for  England  last  year." 

He  paused.  Sir  Theodore  looked  at  him  in  the  eyes,  and 
he  continued,  in  a  low,  hard  voice: 

"  We  had  been  dining  together  at  Villa  Medici.  I  brought 
her  home.  She  gave  me  the  key  that  I  might  open  the  door. 
And  I  have  kept  it  ever  since." 

He  laid  the  key  down  on  the  hall  table. 

"  That's  a  lie,"  said  Sir  Theodore.     "  I  was  here  that  night." 

"  I  know.     Here  —  asleep !  " 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  517 

"  My  wife  was  at  home.  I  visited  her  room  and  heard  her 
sleeping  before  I  went  to  bed." 

"  No.  She  was  with  me  in  the  garden  of  Villa  Medici  till 
midnight." 

"  I  heard  her  sleeping." 

A  look  of  contempt  —  or  was  it  pity?  —  flitted  across  Cesare's 
face. 

"  Because  you  thought  she  must  be,"  he  said. 

"You  dare  to  say ?  " 

"  I  came  in  with  her  that  night." 

"  You "  Sir  Theodore  made  a  slight  movement  for- 
ward, checked  himself,  and  stood  still. 

"  Against  her  will.     I  only  stayed  a  few  minutes." 

There  was  an  unmistakable  accent  of  truth  in  the  voice. 
That,  and  the  unexpectedness  of  the  last  words,  evidently  made 
on  Sir  Theodore  an  immense,  and  terrible,  impression.  The 
man  who  could  say  that,  in  that  way,  was  a  man  of  truth. 

"  She  did  not  wish  you  to  come  in?  " 

"  She  did  not  wish  me  to  come  in,  to  be  with  her  that 
night." 

Sir  Theodore  hesitated,  with  his  eyes  always  fixed  upon 
Cesare.  Little  drops  of  sweat  burst  out  on  his  forehead. 
Twice  he  opened  his  lips  and  did  not  speak.  At  length,  with 
a  difficult  effort,  he  said: 

"  What  have  you  come  here  for  now?  It  is  not  to  see  her. 
She  is  dead. 

"  I  have  comiC  to  claim  my  child." 

Again  the  silence  fell  between  them.  In  It  there  took  place 
a  fearful  resurrection.  The  potential  father,  stricken  down  in 
Sir  Theodore  for  the  moment  by  the  illness  and  death  of  Do- 
lores, rose  as  if  from  the  grave  at  the  last  words  "  My  child," 
with  an  almost  wild  beast  desire  to  spring  upon  and  make  an 
end  of  the  man  who  had  uttered  them.  A  rage  of  possession 
took  hold  of  him.  He  had  lost  the  mother.  Was  he  going  to 
lose  the  child?  Was  he  going  to  be  left  with  nothing?  At 
that  moment  he  no  longer  debated  the  fearful  question.  He 
no  longer  asked  himself  whether  or  not  the  child  was  his! 
The  child  had  been  born  in  his  home,  of  his  wife,  and  it  should 
be  his.  He  would  close  his  ears  to  evidence  and  his  mind  to 
reason.  He  would  not  argue,  listen  or  see.  He  would  repel 
and  he  would  hold.  The  child  should  own  him  as  father.  He 
would  take  the  child  to  England,  or  to  some  distant  land, 
where  no  evil  tongues  would  ever  whisper  a  doubt  as  to  his 


5i8  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

paternity.  Even  the  fury  of  jealousy  and  of  humiliation  sank 
away  at  that  moment  from  his  heart.  Even  Dolores  vv^as  for- 
gotten. Every  other  feeling  was  trampled  down  by  the  deter- 
mination to  keep  possession  of  the  child. 

He  took  up  the  latchkey  and  put  it  into  his  pocket. 

"  You  talk  like  a  madman,"  he  said.  "  I  must  ask  you  to 
go."  ,  ^  ^ 

Cesare  stood  looking  at  him. 

"  You  must  give  up  my  child." 

"  Go." 

"  Do  you  want  evidence?  I  was  with  your  wife  at  Olevano 
Romano  on  the  night  of  the  twenty-second  of  last  September, 
the  night  Montebruno  killed  himself  there." 

"  Go !  "  repeated  Sir  Theodore. 

But  Cesare  drew  out  a  letter-case  and  took  from  it  a  folded 
sheet  of  note  paper. 

"  If  you  do  not  believe  me  look  at  that." 

He  held  towards  Sir  Theodore  Princess  Mancelli's  note  of 
warning  to  Dolores. 

"  Your  wife  sent  that  to  me  directly  she  received  it.  You 
will  see  that  she  has  written  some  words  on  it." 

Sir  Theodore  read  the  note  and  tore  it  up. 

"Go!  "he  said. 

"  You  must  give  up  my  child." 

"  I  shall  not  part  with  the  child." 

"  Do  you  still  believe  the  child  is  yours?  " 

Sir  Theodore  clenched  his  hands. 

"  I  shall  not  part  with  the  child,"  he  reiterated,  doggedly. 

"  I  will  have  it!  "  said  Cesare. 

A  wicked  look  came  into  his  face. 

*'  She  took  me  and  threw  me  away,  as  if  I  and  my  love  were 
nothing,"  he  said ;  and  now  his  voice  was  shaken  as  the  memory 
of  his  wrong  boiled  up  in  him.  "  If  she  had  lived  I  don't  know 
what  I  should  have  done.  It's  difficult  for  a  man  to  fight 
against  a  woman.  But  she's  gone,  and  we  men  are  left.  Be- 
fore she  went  she  gave  a  child  to  me  —  to  me.  His  voice 
suddenly  rose,  and  he  struck  his  breast  violently.  "  Not  to  you. 
D'you  hear?  And  I'll  have  what  she  gave  me,  what  belongs  to 
me. 

He  moved  forward  violently,  then  stood  still. 

"  Ah !  "  he  said. 

He  looked  down  the  passage  on  the  right.  There  was  a 
slight  rustling  sound  and  Nurse  Jennings  appeared,  dressed  to 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  519 

go  away.  Before  she  could  speak  Cesare  was  beside  her,  and 
had  seized  her  by  the  arm. 

"You  knew!  She  told  you!"  he  said.  "Tell  him  who  is 
the  father  of  the  child." 

Nurse  Jennings  looked  at  Sir  Theodore  without  speak- 
ing. 

Under  the  steady  eyes  of  the  woman,  eyes  that  were  still  red 
with  weeping  for  his  dead  wife,  something  within  him  seemed  to 
collapse.  All  the  doggedness  melted,  was  swept  away  under  a 
torrent  of  conviction,  of  humiliation,  of  despair.  He  felt  im- 
potent, no  more  a  man,  incapable  of  further  assertion  of  any 
right  —  if  he  possessed  it  —  incapable  of  any  struggle  of  any 
further  resistance.  His  head  dropped.  He  looked  suddenly 
years  older. 

An  electric  bell  sounded.  Carlino  appeared,  staring  with  his 
anxious  eyes.  He  went  to  the  front  door  and  opened  It.  Me- 
chanically Sir  Theodore  looked  up  and  saw  on  the  threshold 
Lady  Sarah.  Slowly  he  went  to  her  and  took  her  hand.  Hold- 
ing it  tightly  he  turned  towards  the  nurse  and  Cesare. 

"Let  her  take  the  child!  "  he  said  in  a  loud,  unsteady  voice. 
"  If  she  will  —  let  her  —  let  her  —  she  has  told  me  —  she  told 
me  yesterday  —  she  cares  very  much  for  little  children." 

He  dropped  Lady  Sarah's  hand,  and  left  them.  He  went 
into  the  dead  woman's  room,  and  sank  down  on  the  sofa.  He 
felt  terribly  tired,  finished. 

How  long  he  sat  there  alone  he  did  not  know.  But  pres- 
ently he  heard  a  knock.  It  was  reiterated,  but  he  did  not 
reply  to  it.  And  at  last  the  door  was  opened  and  Nurse  Jen- 
nings came  in.  She  shut  the  door  behind  her  and  came  to  the 
sofa. 

"  Sir  Theodore !  '*  she  said. 

He  did  not  speak  or  look  ud, 

"Sir  Theodore!" 

She  sat  down,  very  near  him. 

"  I  am  going  away,  but  I  couldn't  go  without  speaking  to 
you." 

"  Will  she  take  the  child  ? "  he  said,  without  moving  or 
looking  at  her.     "  Is  she  going  to  take  the  child  ?  " 

"Yes,  I  think  she  w-ill.     She  loves  little  children." 

He  shivered. 

"Then  —  then  there's  nothing  more  to  say." 

"  Yes,  there's  just  this.  I  don't  want  to  hurt  you,  but  I 
must  say  it.     For  I  feel  I  owe  it  to  her.     All  this  has  come 


520  THE  FRUITFUL  VINE 

about  because  she  loved  you  too  much,  more  than  a  man  de- 
serves to  be  loved,  I  think,  and  you'll  forgive  me!  " 

*'  Loved  me  too  much ! "  he  muttered.  "  Loved  me  too 
much !  " 

"  Yes.  One  night,  when  you  were  living  at  Frascati,  I  was 
alone  with  her  here,  and  she  told  me  —  as  good  as  told  me. 
She  had  been  playing  the  piano,  and  she  quite  broke  down. 
'  I've  always  been  pretending,'  she  said.  And  with  that  she 
cried  as  if  her  heart  was  near  to  breaking.  And  at  last  she 
said,  *  I  want  to  have  a  child! '  " 
!      Sir  Theodore  lifted  his  head  and  looked  at  the  nurse. 

""  I  said,  *  Many  women  want  that.'  '  Not  like  me,'  she  said. 
*  I  can't  bear  it,  not  having  a  child.'  And  then  she  said,  and 
her  voice  —  well,  it  really  was  terrible  — '  I  need  to  have  a 
child ! '     And  then,  presently,  she  told  me  —  she  told  me " 

The  voice  of  the  nurse  shook. 

"What?"  said  Sir  Theodore,  "What?" 

"  She  told  me  she  needed  the  child  for  you." 

"Forme?" 

"  Yes.  She  said,  '  Because  I  haven't  given  my  husband  a 
child  he  doesn't  care  for  me  any  more.'  And  last  of  all  she 
said :  *  He  will  never  care  for  me  again  unless  I  can  give  him 
a  child.  He  blames  me  because  we  have  no  child.  He  doesn't 
say  it,  but  he  makes  me  feel  it,  every  day  and  all  the  time.' 
And  then  she  cried  again,  and  let  me  know  how  terribly  she 
cared  for  you,  and  how  terribly  she  felt  it,  your  being  always 
with  that  family.     And  at  last  I  said " 

"What?"  asked  Sir  Theodore,  in  a  strange  voice,  an  awak- 
ened voice. 

"  I  said,  *  I  should  like  to  bring  it  home  to  your  husband 
what  he's  made  you  suffer.' " 

There  was  a  long  silence.     Then  the  nurse  got  up. 

"  She  made  me  give  my  on  honor  promise  never  to  tell  you. 
Well,  I've  broken  it,  and  I  had  to.  And  this  I  will  say.  Sir 
Theodore,  that  never  was  there  a  man  loved  better  than  you 
have  been,  nor  one  that  understood  the  way  of  a  woman's  love 
less  than  you.  And  this  I  will  say,  too,  that  whatever  she  may 
have  done,  the  real  reason  of  its  doing  was  you.  Pretty  well 
all  the  big  things  women  do  are  done  for  men,  I  believe.  Fool- 
ish it  may  be,  but  I  suppose  it's  human  nature.  We  are  made 
so,  and  must  put  up  with  it." 

She  paused.  Tears  were  running  down  her  cheeks.  He  sat 
gazing  at  her  without  a  word. 


THE  FRUITFUL  VINE  521 

"  Good-bye,  Sir  Theodore." 

She  pulled  out  her  handkerchief. 

.With  an  eflfort  he  got  up.  He  did  not  take  her  hand,  but 
she  took  his. 

"  I'm  sorry,"  she  said.  "  But  I  had  to  tell  you,  promise  or 
no  promise.     I  felt  I  owed  it  to  her." 

"  Yes,  you  owed  it  to  her." 

"  And  through  it  all,  to  my  thinking,  she  never  was  bad. 
No,  she  was  good  right  up  to  the  end.     She  was,  she  was!  " 

*'  She  was  better  than  I !  "  he  answered. 

The  nurse  gripped  his  hand  and  left  him. 

As  she  went  out  of  the  room  he  sank  down  again  on  the 
sofa,  and  leaned  forward,  with  his  elbows  on  his  knees  and  his 
head  in  his  hands. 

"  Better  than  I !  "  he  repeated.     "  Better  than  I !  " 


THE  END 


FOREIGN  .WORDS  AND  PHRASES  TRANSLATED 

PAGE 

2  passeggiata — walks,  paths. 

3  canzonettiste — singers   (performers). 
9     ambiente — environment. 

14  Per  piacere  due  the — Tea  for  two,  if  you  please. 

21  Donna   giiardando   il   mare — Lady   watching   the   sea. 

25  sur  la  tranche — on  the  wing,  unsettled. 

29  C'est  un  Anglais,  e  basta — He's  an  Englishman,  that's  sufficient. 

30  gaffe — "break." 

31  una  buona  donna  di  casa — a  good  housewife. 

43  ben  tornata — welcome  back. 

44  mauvaise  langue — slanderous  tongued. 
48     potlns — gossip. 

60  faiblesse — weakness. 

70  I'illegg'tatura — summer  season. 

75  Ma    che    bella    donna!     Che    donna    simpatica! — Oh!     What    a 

beautiful  woman!  what  an  attractive  woman! 

47  Chi  lo  saf — Who  knows? 

77  numero  un — A,  number  one. 

88  coute  que  coute — cost  what  It  may. 

60  maestro  di  casa — major-domo. 

104  ben  venuta — welcome. 

105  Bene   cost — That   will    do. 

110  jouer  le  monde — to  play  the  game  of  life. 

111  buona  sera — good  evening. 

112  Ebbene! — Well! 
114  Lo  so — I  know  it. 

114  Tienti  pure  nella  guiete.  Non  lasciarti  turbare  dalla  tempesta. 
Piu  che  iu  sentirai  di  essere  uomo  piu  ti  assomiglierai  agli 
Dei — Keep  perfectly  calm.  Don't  let  yourself  be  disturbed 
by  the  storm.  The  more  you  feel  yourself  a  man,  the  more 
you  are  like  the  gods. 

126  Madame,    croyez    moi,    nous    commen<ions    a    peine — Believe    me, 

madame,  we  have  scarcely  begun. 

127  peau  de  chagrin — piece  of  leather. 

132     es  ist  ivirklich  ganz  ivunderschon — it  is  really  quite  beautiful. 

132  No  hay  que  decir  hijila;  mas  hermosas  son  las  Chilenas — I  don't 
see  any  girls  here  more  beautiful  than  the  Chilians. 

137  Piu  e  grande  la  sensibilita,  piu  e  forte  il  dolor e.  Grande  Mar- 
tire! — The  deeper  the  feeling  the  stronger  the  pain  (grief). 
Oh,  great  martyr! 

148  3e  'vous  ai  dit  que  vous  fumez  trop — I've  told  you,  you  smoke 
too  much. 

522 


FOREIGN  WORDS  AND  PHRASES  523 

PAGE 

154  Us  allumalent  bien  leur  petite  lanterne,  seulement  c'etait  comme 
celle  des  vers  luisants.  Elle  ne  rechauffait  rien  et  eclaira'it 
a  peine — They  light  their  little  lantein,  only  the  light  is 
like  the  glowworm's — no  warmth,  and  scarcely  any  illumina- 
tion. 

163     Buon  giorno — good  day. 

174  Giu  seduto!  Giii!  Giii! — Down-seated!  (a  fencing  term;  evi- 
dently the  fencing-master  admonishing  his  pupil  to  crouch 
lower  and  lower  to  get  on  his  guard). 

177     Prego — I  beg  of  you. 

180    Lo    capisco — I    understand. 

201  Nu  Zampugnaro  'e  nu  paesse,  etc. — A  song  in  the  Neapolitan  dia- 
lect describing  the  life  of  the  piper — telling  how  lazy  he  is, 
and  how  he  spends  his  days  in  sighing  for  his  wife  or  sweet- 
heart, and  in  sighing  and  piping  idles  away  his  time. 

201  E  ullero,  ullero!  etc. — Popular  ditty  of  a  ribald,  almost  sacrile- 
gious nature. 

203  une  desenchantee  echappee  du  Harem — a  runaway  from  the 
Harem    (referring  to  "Les  Desenchantees,"   by  Pierre   Loti). 

303  Elle  va  patiner!  Mon  dieuf  Man  dieu!  Si  elle  tombe,  c'est 
fini.  Nous  aurons  uii  cadavre  dans  la  maison — Good 
heavens!  She's  going  to  skate.  If  she  falls  it's  all  over. 
We'll  have  a  corpse  in  the  house. 

207  Maintenant  il  est  bon  pere  de  famille — He  has  become  a  good 
father  of   a  family. 

215  Tons  ces  Grands  Dues  m'ennuient  tellement! — All  these  grand 
dukes  bore  me  to  death! 

220     cliches — copies. 

230  La  petite  jalouse  est  tout  bonnement  furleuse! — ^The  jealous  little 
thing  is  simply  furious! 

230    impayable — extraordinary. 

243     sguardo  Imperiale — Imperial  bearing. 

245  Cantava  I'usignolo  stamattina  colla  'vocina  sua  gentile  e  fina — 
"The  nightingale  sang  this  morning  with  its  fine,  noble  voice." 

256  Ma  come  e  ancora  qui  questo  signoref — What!  Is  that  gentleman 
still  here? 

256     A  casa!    A  casa! — Home !     Home ! 

259  "Donna  Delinquente" — (The  Criminal  Woman),  title  of  one  of 
Lombroso's  works, 

266  "Mon  cceur  s'ouvre  a  ta  voix" — "My  heart  opens  to  thy  voice." 
Famous  aria  from  Saint  Saens'  "Sanson  et  Dalila." 

303     vaporino — launch. 

303     Come  ama  il  sua  signoref — How  she  loves  her  signore! 

305     Davvero! — In  truth,  yes! 

308     Va  bene — All  right. 

320    La  signora  e  tin  po'  stranaf — The  lady  is  a  little  odd! 

365     espiegle — frolicsome. 

368  Monsieur    Leroux    travaille    aujourd'hui? — Monsieur    Leroux    is 

working  to-day? 

369  La  petite  s'est  amenee  aujourd'hui  a  6}  et  n'a  troui'i  pcrsonne    • 

The  little  girl  came  at  a  quarter  past  six  and  found  no  one. 


524  FOREIGN  WORDS  AND  PHRASES 

PAGE 

373     Bon  solr!    Nous  'voila  encore  une  fois! — Good  evening!     Here  we 

are  again ! 
377     Quant  e  bella  glovinezza,  etc. — 

"Oh,  how  beautiful  is  youth — 

But  ever  slipping  away. 

Would'st  be  merry? — be  so; 

For  of  to-morrow  naught  is  certain." 
393    fflrrozzfl— carriage. 
400    L'amour  'veille! — Love  watches! 

405  tempi  passat'i — by-gone  days. 

406  macche — an  exclamation. 
425     come  vuole — as  we  like. 
435     megl'io  cos\ — better  so. 

425     jar  seguire — please  forward. 

433  Venga!     Venga! — Come!     Come! 

434  Venga!    Lei  venga! — Come!     Let  her  come! 

434    Ecco!    Ecco  una  bella  cosa! — Here's  a  pretty  state  of  things! 
437     Q^i  San  Filippo  Neri  discorreva  coi  suoi  discepoli  delle  cose  di  Dio 
— "Here   St.  Philip   Neri   discoursed  with   his   pupils  on   the 
things  of  God." 
481     dame  de  compagnie — companion. 
489     Mamma  dart — Mama  sleeps. 
467     A   mezzannott  appunto,  etc. — 

At  midnight  precisely 

Is  heard  a  great  uproar 

It  is  the  gariolandi,  la  la  la  la 

Going  to  work. 
467     Quest"  e  la  lia  del  ponte,  etc. — 

This  is  the  street  of  the  bridge 

Where  that  traitor 

Came  to  betray  the  fair-haired  one,  la  la  la  la 

With  a  love-kiss. 


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